86th Personal Training Sessions

[𝓂𝒶𝒽𝑜𝓊𝒽𝑜🕊]

Domitia Drusilla - D2F

D O M I T I A .

when I'm far too gone, will you show me love?

I don’t have many things in common with my mentors, that I can confidently say. Dinner conversations have been quaint within the District 2 quarters, the small talk’s blade not being strong enough to cut through the tension or of Shy’s punctual musk. But out of the small decent words that Cricket and I exchanged, we could agree on one thing. Everyone loves a good performance, and fighting is just that.

Maybe I got the love for it when I was young, from when dad would always make a narrating spectacle out of even the smallest things. His cheering and mischievous comments always stuck with me; it made my cheeks hurt and my chest hum. Since no matter how my body ached from our runs or after he ceased, that glow never faded. Like a fragile flower taking root, its roots thicken and grew harsh, persisting despite the terrain. I never had any consistency as I grew, but his memory was the only thing I had left. His memory held alive whenever I’d make an audience applaud, when I heard others gasp, or of the frustrated grunts of my opponent when on my stage. Any reaction meant I was doing something at least, because silence is the worst. There’s a lot of weight to silence, and I don’t like that gray area. The white noise kicks in, then the faint callings of mountainous chilled gales whispers into my ears in a range only reserved for me. I’m not sure if Cricket felt the same way. I grew up seeing a few clips of her games, hearing most of her through tales until I found out about the bad. But beforehand, dad would always laugh at my fire, saying that another Antoinette had something to watch out for.

Keeping others on their toes is all that I know, it is how I survived, and it is how Cricket approved I would thrive. And so, through some bickering, wearing, and convincing, I told her my plan. It wasn’t one I dreamed up of since I was twelve, like some others or before. It wasn’t one I would ideally chatter about during lunch time sparring breaks, or between drinking with career friends I never had. Foot bouncing as I leaned over, palms pressed against the cool metal benches. The countdown has begun, one of the few till the last to come. As the two to my right left, the time before my curtain call had felt till long. I couldn’t let the other tributes see the caged bird that bounced within its cage in my chest as my name was called. As taught in Townsend, an art that would make Cricket proud, my head held high as I walked in. The only action that betrayed my thoughts were my piercing eyes. The only thing that swayed had been my bouncing espresso locks and the door sliding shut behind me.

My confident smile crushed the sides of the cage within me, forcing the birds to cease. “Don’t fall asleep on me yet, we’re just starting” my voice rang out hollow against the room, reverberating off the forcefield lounge before me. In the center of the room laid a steel table, boasting a modest box underneath and a weapons rack to the side. And as if an invisible timer had sounded, I didn’t waste time on further greetings, I fell into routine.

To train to be a victor starting from youth, we all had methods to our madness. I’d like to envision mine like a dance, as if there were placematted steps to guide me, similar to ones placed on agility courses. With a stride to the center and dropping down to my knees, I bounced up quickly after retrieving my needs. Lighter fluid and a box of matches sat to the right side of the table. While crossing to the left side and spinning around towards behind, the rack held the typical arrangement. My left hand plucked two knives, dipping them into my hip’s hem as I was taught long before. Now rested and mirroring the comfort of a capitolite browsing in a store, my right hand hovered and waved over several items. A tease as my fingers stroked the curve of the axe, a downward stroke of the sword’s hilt, then my hand rose finally to my prize. The wrapped leather bundle unfolded with ease, like a relaxed snake. With the kick of the wrack, sending it rolling back. The swivel of my hips and swaying of my hair welcomed back my audience to the lead. Following in line with the body, the movement guided my forearm inward of me, jerking back in ease. A sidearm crack of leather erupted within the room, commanding any audience members to sit upward.

As the whip fell, I lifted and dragged it in the motion it laid, guiding the leathered serpent straight across its steel platform. “I’m sure you all are going to be bored for the next several hours, watching the same shit, over and over” cut through the air, while the splashing of lighter fluid and rotating of the whip persisted. Abandoning the handle and lighter bottle, then came the lights to flash onto center stage. With a harshness and pressing stroke of the thumb, a gentle flame burned bright, merging into chaos as I touched it to the table.

Angered flames licked its tongues upward and vibrantly, igniting with a beating passion that matched the quickness of my feet on that fateful March evening. Gaze flickering up to the lounge before me, my left hand cupped my right elbow coyly, the remaining lit match held like a cigarette. Winking cockily, I then stuck out my tongue, quenching the single flame onto it.. After I flicked the burnt wood away, my hand then wrapped around the familiar handle once more. Kicking the table forward, enough to send the flaming metal towards the shielded lounge, the flaming serpent now laid forward. A simple forced raise of my right ignited a flaming coachman crack over my head, sending fading embers around my crown. “Hopefully this will change things. Let's have some fun, shall we?”

Dimming lights announced the show had begun, with clementine lasers honing into enemy cubes. The droned hum alerted me to the left, a pixilated swiveling knife shattering mid air against the crack of my whip. Another quip encircled the blobbed figure’s ankles in lit leather, a tug sending cubes to shatter all around the floor. Footsteps echoing the sound of would-be rain encroached from above. On an invisible banister in the center, a smaller feminine tribute had formed, moving in from the far right. Shifting from a crouched position, the citrine enemy raised up a spear, rushing forth. A dash towards the center allowed the makeshift weapon to crumble into the slate floor at my side, as warmth guided me.

Warmth has always guided me, sheltering me from the frost surrounding me. Life had always been frigid since dad became one with the snow. But as did a failing heater amidst my childhood cracked windows, its blaze kept me alive through the nights. The warmth in me motivated me to my feet in times of caution, spurring me to dash forward, to continue to survive. I felt his flare surge within me, coaxing the flame to rise above. And as it did, the scorching whip entrapped the smaller faux tribute. Its makeshift hands shifted to the burning leather, fingered cubes rained before a shower erupted at the grunted tug of my weapon. The shimmering tangerine dazzled my eyes, a beautiful show for the would-be death of a child. These parts of the games I could see, this is where the beauty lied. Yet, a final pattering hum emerged from behind. Shifting around, cubes entangling dying gold into my coils, the last stood before me. Yet it would be too close for my whip to breach, too close to shove past its pretend axe. So my hands as I swiveled reached into my back left side hem. And as was my searing leather guided previously, an invisible curve connected the cubed abdomen with my knife.

Then the faltering side stumble of cubes returned the lights slowly to the room. Head looking over my shoulder to the gamemaker lounge, the final backward jerk of my right forearm announced a departing fiery crack. Doors opened, encouraging the handle to fall limp against the floor. Avoxes were swiftly sent in, a peacekeeper forcing me to return the hidden blade before I was to go. Although this wasn’t a dream I manifested as Vibes would put it, it was one murmured from the dead; a prayer I would be cast for a leading role in this play, since everyone knows what happens to the supporting cast. They’re to die to the leads for the sake of character development, only to be forgotten or pathetically brought up later on. My existence is more than some pathetic dinner table conversation, yours was too. You didn’t deserve to die young, to have your bones broken under the weight of our district. If I am to die, it won’t be in snow, it won’t be prematurely, nor will it be by or for my district. Shall it occur, it will be how I decide. But one thing is for certain, I won’t be alone in the frigid cold, no matter if a flaming whip is beside me. Since I’ll have your warmth guiding me, as it always has.

elegant

[sidney]

Before Mona had ever learned to walk a tightrope or sway her hips to a melody or harmonize perfectly with a chorus girl, Madam Baumé had taught her how to put on a show. To enrapture an audience in a breathtaking performance even if there was nothing but her and a spotlight on the stage. As she walks through the doors and approaches the center of the room, all her lessons from years at the Den begin racing through her mind.

Always smile. Never miss a beat. Keep them on the edge of their seat. Earn their praise and demand their devotion.

Even in the past days, the preparation for this moment had been more of the same. She'd learned that the mastering of a knife would only get her so far, but more importantly it was a skill beneficial once she entered the arena. As much as she knew the Game Makers needed to see the expertise she had with a blade, she knew she needed to make an impression more than anything else. 

Make them fall in love with you.

Now that was one lesson she never quite mastered. If only Charmer could see her now, nervously fidgeting with a zipper on her shirt as sweat started to gather on the small of her back. She'd tell her to relax, but never in so many words. It would be a look, eyes bulging and mean, nothing more. Mona would kill for one last glance like that from her right now. Maybe it would calm the butterflies stirring up a storm in her belly, give her some semblance of confidence that she can pull off the performance she'd worked on all week.

"Mona Wyatt," she says, her voice cracking slightly but she finds a more solid tone when she utters "District Twelve," after. Turning her back to the balcony, she gives a quick side glance toward one of the trainers that had helped her plan this out and he nods reassuringly before pressing a button on a monitor in front of him.

Let the show begin.

Music starts softly and a single piece of silk descends from a beam in the ceiling. It's quiet, the jump she makes, grabbing onto the fabric with one hand then another. Silent and sturdy, she pulls her way up, wrapping a leg around the silk as another identical piece descends two feet away. She uses them both to highlight her dexterity, the way she can ascend to great heights not only quickly, but as quiet as a mouse. Mostly it's meant as a distraction. To keep their eyes on her as she twirls gracefully in the air while another trainer sets up the next step: an adoring crowd. There was a barrier between her and the intended audience, that much had been made loud and clear on their first day at the Training Center, but that didn't mean Mona couldn't use the power of suggestion and the Capitol's technology to create a crowd to interact with.

They were meant to stand in a mosh pit beneath her, programmed to jump up and down excitedly as she performed. Illusions told to do exactly what a code on a computer said, but what she had learned this past week was that they were all but human, in every sense except flesh and blood. They could cheer, they could heckle, but more importantly they could work just like mutts. Which meant they could be fought and killed. Perfect, she'd whispered under her breath when a trainer had told her. What better way to show them what Mona was good at than to slay targets with a slice of her blade in the blink of an eye while putting on one hell of a show. And that's exactly what she proceeded to do. 

Unraveling the silks around her waist and legs, she lowered herself closer to the crowd. They were just shapes of varying sizes, faces with no features and limbs with no definition, but they loved her all the same. Their praise only grew louder the closer she got, but what they don't expect is the brandishing of a blade from within a hidden pocket on the inside of her thigh. With a flourish of her legs and a twist of her shoulders, she dangles from above by nothing more than silk wrapped strategically around her ankles and sliced the throats of two of the mutt-like humans closest to her. They didn't even have a chance to cry out, and Mona had even requested that they have that ability. Make them as human as possible, she'd asked for that specifically. If they see her knife or know what's about to happen to them, she wanted them to yell. She wanted them to foil her plans and ruin her performance because that way it was more real. If she slipped up or made a mistake, they would know—the Game Makers would know. But the two she had taken out simply crumpled to the ground and dissolved back into pixels, and the ones that remained started to occupy the new space, merging together as they still stared up at Mona in awe. 

The view from above was almost overwhelming, but there was confidence flowing through her veins now. The first bait and switch had gone off without a hitch, and it had been the one part she'd been the most nervous about. If she couldn't pull it off, then she may as well had never even walked through the door. If she couldn't handle a simple aerial routine followed by two shadow assassinations, then she had no business being called Wraith and no shot of getting out of the arena alive. What followed was a cue from her toward the last trainer she had convinced to help her. A burly man with bright blond curls atop his head, sweet and simple and more than happy to comply with Mona's wishes once she'd smiled at him and said please. He pulled a lever on the far side of the room and three targets emerged from the floor at staggering distances. At a simple glance, anyone could see what was coming next, but this performance was about the unexpected, not doing the same old shit over and over. Anyone with mild hand-eye coordination could chuck a knife and hit a bullseye.

What she had planned was far more interesting.

Another button was pressed and the same mutt-like humans that gathered in a group below her started to run back and forth across the room. They did what they were told—what they were programmed to do. Dance around the targets, hide from Mona's view, and most importantly avoid the swipe of her blade. Instead of jumping back down onto the ground to hunt them, more silk emerged and dangled from specific beams throughout the room now. She began building up momentum with her body, swinging back and forth with her core as her arms swung beautifully around her head before she untangled herself from the silk she currently dangled from and leapt for another just a few feet away. Then another. And another. Until she repositioned herself completely. The artificial crowd ooo'd and ahh'd at her movement, but it wasn't them she's trying to impress. It was the Game Makers she was trying to show how beautiful she could make hunting prey.

How a girl with nothing but silk and steel can turn taking a life into something breathtaking.

She doesn't just throw her knives at the targets, no—they were a distraction as well. Another flourish, a twist of a concept into something all her own. Instead she twirled and bent into inexplicable positions, swinging herself from hanging silks as she locked onto her targets, each of them moving beneath her like rats in a maze. They bobbed and weaved as best as they could be programmed to, but with ease Mona pinned each one with a knife to the heart to a nearby target, relishing in the soft patter of pixelated atoms atop rubber flooring each time one succumbed to her near perfect strike, leaving only a knife in all three bullseyes.

Three adoring human-shaped mutts remained beneath her, arms extended up toward her where she hung upside down. The music swelled, a crescendo of strings and piano echoing off the walls and she knew this was her final cue. The big finish. With a wriggle of her hips and a tightening of her thighs, she hoisted herself up, sliced her knife through the silks holding her aloft, and did a rotating backflip to the floor. Silently, gracefully, unwavering—she landed, yet another knife brandished. In one fell swoop, she used the momentum of her fall to swipe at the throats of the remaining mutts. One, two, three fell, crumpling into bits just like the other in perfect time with the fading out of the music and the recession of silks from the ceiling. 

"They'll never see me coming," was all she said, no crack in her voice like when she entered and more confidence than she'd ever had on stage at the Den. This was her performance, her show. And it wasn't to please Madam Baumé or to garner more coin from a man in the audience that requested her company after. It was for survival. It was to make sure she could go home. It was to guarantee she'd see Jamie's face again someday. It meant everything and she hadn't faltered, not once. That was the best she could do. Hopefully it was enough. "Thank you for your time."

[fireflyz]

a n a r i .

"you are weak
but not foolish
you have learned
how to die."

He had no plan whatsoever.

Anari had skills, sure, but none that would actually apply to impressing the curators of a televised death pageant. He was more accustomed to things like cracking jokes, and charming the ladies (and gents and enbies, he didn't discriminate), and eating a lot, and putting things off until he absolutely couldn't any longer. Stabbing and slicing? Not really his thing. The trainers had said it themselves - the elements could be more deadly than a knife, and as long as Anari could run and hide, he'd be fine. If only the evaluation room were big enough to do both of those things for fifteen minutes straight.

He sat on the bench in the hallway, hands clasped in his lap, body reclining against the wall behind him as he watched the others emerge one by one from their sessions. He squinted at their faces to see whether they seemed particularly crestfallen, but as expected, he was never good at reading people he didn't know.

That was the kicker, wasn't it? Everything was unfamiliar, and everything he did know was a poor fit. Anari absently kicked at the air in front of him, willing some grand idea to come to him within the next couple of hours. In the meantime, he entertained himself by mimicking Piper in his head, his internal voice traveling up some octaves until it vaguely sounded like her.

No, I don't want to eat the greens! They're yucky! They're trying to poiiiison me!

He snorted, continuing to fill his head with inane thoughts until the sound of his name being called, once again, cut through the fog. Anari stood from the bench and shuffled into the evaluation room, his vision immediately assaulted by the wall of weapons before him. He figured he should pick one of them up, swing it around until they inevitably got sick of him, but his mind was still full of impersonations. At some point, Piper morphed into Amelia, and then into Neysa, and then Carbon, until it was just one giant amalgamation of nonsense. And then he spotted the two dummies laying against the wall, and he was sure a lightbulb had physically risen out of his skull from the way his facial muscles relaxed.

Anari scurried over to the mannequins and began to erect them around the room, nudging them to the left or the right depending on how he felt. He stood back for a moment, stroking his chin, before grabbing a knife from the stand and dragging it across one of the mannequin's chest. A N stared back at him from where the blade disconnected from the plastic - N for Naima. Anari was certain that if he made it out of this alive, she'd at least want to see him.

He then walked over to the other dummy and carved a K into its sternum - K for who, he didn't know, but it didn't matter. Once he was done, he moved behind the dummy and grabbed it by the hips, moving it side to side as he spoke in an exaggerated low tone.

"Hello, lady," Anari said gruffly, coughing a bit when his voice dipped too deep. "I have come to keel you."

He then released K and ran over to the Naima double, holding its shoulders from behind as his tone slid upwards. "Oh, no!" he squeaked. "Someone, saaaaave me!"

Anari then emerged from behind the double, puffing his chest out. "I'll save you, madam!" he declared, rushing toward K and throwing the entire weight of his body atop the dummy. He leaned side to side as if he were struggling, rolling over onto his back with K looming over him. He alternated between growls, his normal tone, and the high-pitched damsel voice as he rolled around the floor, occasionally brandishing his knife.

Once he had had enough of the tumbling, he climbed atop K and drove the knife into the same space where he had carved the letter, leaving the hilt standing straight up. Anari then rose from his "victim", turning to face the Naima double. He strolled slowly across the floor, throwing an arm around the dummy's shoulders.

"You're safe now, madam," he said. His eyes then floated up to where the gamemakers sat and he bowed, dummy leaning forward as he moved. "And scene."

elegant

[k!ah]

The shadows at the edge of the room wrap themselves around him, his eyes turned to the ground as his knee bounced nervously. There were too many people, too many eyes, too much expectation. He felt uncomfortable. That the room was too small, the walls threatening to close in on him. Making it difficult to breathe-

"District three, Yukiteru Amano!"

His name, too loud, echoes through the room, bounces around his head as he pushes himself onto his feet. The trainer directs him into the room, clipboard pressed to his chest. "This way, please." The man holds his head high, eyes staring down at him. Had Yuki not been so observant he might have missed the contempt, he might have missed the way he purposely kept a good amount of distance between them. Almost as if being this close to Yuki might somehow inflict some sort of disease onto him.

They enter the main chamber and Yuki turns to him, feeling his confidence return as the crowd thins, as the room darkens, as the pressure around him is released. "Have you organised the protective gear we discussed?" The man almost gags at Yuki addressing him, as though some tribute from 10 had just spoken. Yuki was from district 3 for crying out loud!

"Well?" patience running thin the man nods, motioning towards the training who enters wearing a thick protective suit, a helmet and thick protective glasses. "Thank you." Yuki says curtly, directing the trainer towards the edge of the room, against a large target. Then he turns towards the gamemakers, eyes searching each of them thoroughly before turning away without so much as a nod.

Flicking open the case as his side he pulls out one of the darts, running a careful hand over it before he flicks his arm back, ready to fire. Squinting an eye he narrows in on the the point just beside the trainers right elbow. Half a smile later and he feels himself slipping back into familiar skin, and if he tried hard enough he could almost imagine that he was alone, in his room, drapes pulled tight.

He throws.

The dart hits perfectly, skimming the uniform, nailing it to the platform behind his target.

Barely a moment later he sends another flying through the air, hitting the exact same spot on the opposite side.

He fires another. And then another. Each shoulder nailed to the platform.

Grabbing another two he fires in quick succession, each aim perfect. Each eye penetrated by sharp points of his darts. He hears the slight exhale of the trainer, but Yuki barely pauses before his next dart is fired, aimed straight for the patch over the mans heart. It lands, a solid thud, burying itself in the place above the bodies powerhouse.

A sensation of joy spreads through him as he watches each dart strike perfectly. Accuracy perfected over years and years of practice. A unless hobby his mother had always told him. One that had saved his life that night when he had first become the murderer he is today.

One last dart is sent over his shoulder as he walks away. He doesn't need to look to know that it finds it mark, the high pitch squeal and slight fear was enough to know.

Right in the balls.

[lance]

It's amusing really, how so much can change yet so much remains the same concurrently.

It's an equal and opposite effect on your new life. On the one hand, you're looking at an almost certain death lying ahead of you whereas to the public eye you'd still have decades to look forward to had you just kept your head down and your mouth shut. On the other hand, you already know you're living on bonus time, the last week of breath and sustenance keeping you alive whereas the alternative would have seen you bleeding out in a ditch somewhere back home.

And back on the first hand, you're in an unfamiliar world with unfamiliar people at your side and facing you down alike, living in an entirely new ecosystem with unfamiliar faces to gaze into and unfamiliar habits to memorize. And on the second hand, you're right in your element - a gaggle of girls already twisted around your little finger, from the alluring firebrand Charlie to the athletic and mysterious Mona to the quiet and talented Vervain. Allies with their each with their own uses. Each with their own intricacies that made them unique. Each with their own weaknesses that made them manipulatable.

And you're not strong or talented in the conventional sense. You know how to defend yourself, sure, but you're not strong or athletic or particularly gifted in martial pursuits. Those were never your weapons of choice - you much preferred to stand in the background, control things not with physical prowess but with your silver tongue and golden mind instead. But you know that first and foremost what the Gamemakers look for in the private training sessions is a show. Something that'll entertain them while also showcasing that one has what it takes to survive against the odds, for while the Games may be first and foremost about survival, they're also about entertainment. Making the Capitol like you, becoming their sweetheart, et cetera.

And that is what you choose to take advantage of, as you sit back, watching intently as a trio of avoxes stand before you, trembling silently as you draw numbers on the backs of each uniform with some sort of paint mixture you had found in the camouflage station.

First, a crooked 3. Then, a slightly steadier 6. And finally, a mismatched 12.

It's easy to direct them after that. Too easy. Far too easy when the comparisons have to made to her fellow tributes instead of nameless, tongueless avoxes, when you had only has fifteen minutes to show off what you'd been steadily working towards all week. But if you were able to showcase the live version, then what was the point of the sessions at all?

So you'd make do, and hope the Gamemakers were of the sort to detect the nuances behind the hurried actions.

It's a series of simple commands. Follow me. Stop. Arm yourselves (which they do, two with swords and one with a spear). Now tear those dummies to pieces. Let me help (which you do, from the back, a set of throwing knives in her hands that you toss with only moderate success at best towards the dummies while the avoxes do the bulk of the work).

You stop when you reach three knives, silently slipping one into her belt while clutching the other two in each hand. And then you wait, silent, until the last of the dummies are destroyed by her makeshift crew.

You're not fast, or strong, or particularly silent. But the avoxes have their backs turned to her, and it's almost laughably easy to stick the twin knives into the backs of two of them (the ones with the 6 and the 12 plastered on their backs, signifying Charlie and Mona, the fighters of the alliance), right between the shoulderblades. You ignore the sudden gasps of pain (strangely muted, and who knew a tongue could be so integral to such noises?), ignores the spurts of blood that coat her hands, as you shove the pair aside (listening as they land on the ground with twin thumps that echo across the room) and head towards the third one.

She's the smallest of the bunch, the one intentionally painted with the number 3 to represent the shy and quiet Vervain Ward. The one that you'd save for last anyhow, because compared to the warrior women in Charlie and Mona she's most like you - good at stuff that doesn't involve combat but poor in the direct set of survival skills needed to make it all the way to the end of the Games and win.

And that makes her the least threatening. The one most likely for you to be able to kill one on one once everyone else was dead.

There's terror in the avox's silent eyes as you approach her, and despite the rapidly cooling crimson staining your hands you put a finger to your mouth in a soothing shhhhhhh. You smile (the action not reaching your eyes) as your other hand unhitches the last remaining knife from your belt. "Don't worry, my friend," you say, as sweet and genuine as you can manage. "I'm not going to hurt you."

And technically, you're correct - for you cannot imagine that the girl has any time to feel pain before your last knife slides into her eye socket and pierces her brain. You close your eyes as once again, crimson rain splatters across you - this time staining your face, neck, and chest instead of merely your hands - and watch almost impassively as the girl crumples to the ground.

Years, months, hell, even weeks ago you would have reacted to such events with a scream and perhaps a series of vomiting. But though your heart is beating at a mile a minute and nausea roils around in your gut, you stay strong. Still. Collected. Show the Gamemakers - and the vultures who call themselves spectators - no weaknesses, and you'll find a victory every bit as meaningful as a triumph in mortal combat.

Half of the Games is the show, after all, and everyone loves an emotionless assassin.

You turn towards the Gamemakers for the first time, head tilted to one side so that your long auburn hair partially covers one arm. You regard each of them in turn, gaze wide-eyed and curious, for these are the people that your fate has been entrusted to. These are the people who hold all of the power.

Well, you think, maybe not all of it.

"I've played this game before," you say, referring to weeks of harried survival and fighting tooth and nail to survive in a world dominated by adults and men. "And my weapon of choice has always been power."

You straighten your head, regarding the three women behind the forcefield (who can surely relate; isn't heading a Games the ultimate precipice of power an ordinary person can achieve in this society?) with a gaze that shifts from curiosity to piercing. You must look quite a sight - perfectly applied makeup and soft, delicate features in direct contrast to the splatter of crimson lifeblood drying against your face and the equally red shade coating your hands and arms.

And again, you smile (and again, it doesn't reach your eyes).

"That's why I'll be the last one standing in the end."

[charade]

A M E L I A

There was a difference between taming an animal and commanding one. When she’d told the trainers she wanted to go to next level for her training session, they’d been intrigued but cautious. Hopefully, no one had ever attempted this before. And if she fucked it up? Well, it’d be hard to care about fucking up her PTS if she was dead. She already had a couple fresh scars on her arms and one on her cheek from attempts that hadn’t gone so well over the last two weeks.

But getting in touch with her wild side? That she could do.

There’d been that shopkeeper her and Audrey had been hired to shake down. He hadn’t taken them seriously at first, not until Audrey’s boot was on his back and Amelia had calmly started listing all of the ways things could get worse for him. Or how about the runner from the Seraphim’s they’d intercepted? Not only had they taken his message, but Amelia had put the fear of women into him.

In front of her sat a cage with one of the canine breed of mutts in it. Wolf most likely, with a couple other things mixed in. The head mutt trainer stood behind the cage, ready to step in if things took a turn for the worse. In between her and the cage was a bloody raw piece of meat. Cow. She hoped. Amelia dropped to all fours and nodded to the mutt trainer. The cage was unlatched and the creature came padding out. It sniffed the air, eyeing its surrounding warily before it caught the scent of the meat.

It regarded her curiously, but went for the meat anyway. She growled at it. The beast paused, staring at her and growling back. Amelia turned up the volume on her growl, before head-butting it in the side and maintaining eye contact. That was important. Scuttling around on the ground probably made her look ridiculous, but it was also the only thing keeping the creature from ripping her face off.

And anyway, fuck the game makers if they thought she looked funny, this was literally what they wanted. She was going to do this taming without whips or fire or any of the other manmade tools. This was to be an exercise in the primal. It went for the meat again and Amelia pounced, wrapping her arms around its front half and holding onto the nape of its neck with her teeth, biting down hard enough to cause pain, snarling all the while.

She held on until it stopped scrabbling on the ground with its claws, then she let it go and punched it in the snout. It whined, backing up in confusion. That was the most important part of showing dominance. That the betas watching you knew you weren’t afraid of them.

True alphas simply were.

With the mutt cowed for the moment, she made a big show of ripping a chunk of meat off the bone with her teeth; she swallowed, telling herself it was just steak tartare as the harsh coppery tang ran down her throat. She flashed bloody teeth at the wolf mutt and took another bite. It watched her cautiously, curiously, moving closer but making no move to interfere.

Gotcha.

After a tense moment, she pushed the meat in the wolf’s direction, a low rumble bubbling in her throat.

Now you are allowed to eat.

The mutt flicked its ears and approached, taking the offered meal and making quick work of it. When it was done, it sat back on its haunches and watched her. So, she made a noise halfway between a grunt and whine and crawled over to the cage it had come out of. It followed her, and after she tapped the floor of the cage, it seemed to get the message. She latched the door shut and got to her feet, panting loudly, feeling both lightheaded and sick to her stomach, but intensely proud of what she’d accomplished.

One could only hope that the same breed of mutt would be found in the arena. She wasn’t about to try this stunt with a snake or some avian freak of nature. Feeling the eyes that were on her, she turned to look at the game makers. She was a mess. Blood from the steak drying around her mouth, on her hands, her uniform.

The game makers were afforded a lazy two finger salute as she exited the room. That was the most important part of showing dominance, after all. That the betas watching you knew you weren’t afraid of them.

True alphas simply were.

H A L E

kaitlin

[Tom]

Jacynth Voclain was the eye of the storm.

Surrounded by the chaos of a rough sea of saltwater breaking along the edge; a chill of the morning air bursting through her veins. A poison lingering upon her fingertips, makeshift hearts within her palm as if she could play them all like a puppet on strings. Her father would hate to see her like this, but Alex would love to see it. Playing with people's beliefs in her palms and using what she can to get what she wants. A career born from a poisonous life given only pain, seeking out comfort in the simplest of things that'll calm her storm of a life. It's why she enters the room with a load slam of opening doors, hand brushing through her hair as she stares heavily into the eyes of the gamemakers who will decide how useful she was in this game of poisons and hearts.

Staring up at the eyes who'll give her the opportunity to show her hand to them all, a smirk upon her lips as she feels for the object of her plan. A single container that twists off; a bright redness to the obnoxious white space around her. It's a simple lipstick with a twist; a bitterness that'll be perfect for her plan. Standing before the gamemakers, she doesn't give them a chance to see what's up her sleeve. Red spread over her lips as she avoids swallowing any of the product, ignoring the silence of the room. Once it's over, she smiles at the gamemakers before leaving them to grab a few needles from the medical area. Pulling another vial out of her other pocket, she dips the needles in gently.

At seven, her father taught her what poison could do. Built a legacy upon a black market business to benefit from the jealousy of the rich. Burnt a legacy in a single moment, sent a tsunami on her father's business knowing it'd be the best part of being in the games. Nothing will compare to that destroyed look in her father's eyes. Knowing that her own hands had crumbled the only thing her father wanted in the world had made her feel alive for once. The whole thing had made her feel in control once more and she was for once. Control in herself and the others around her, she was playing a game none of them knew.

For a moment, she almost feels like she's not the worst poison in the world.

"Hey! Big guy!" The trainer for strength points to himself as she rolls her eyes. "Yes, you dumbass. Get over here." Her eyes reach dumbass' eyes as she smiles, twirls a piece of her hair in a mock teasing manner. All of it was a game, she wasn't serious about any of this, but she could be if she wanted to be. A laugh underneath her throat as the strength trainer stare at her, stopping in front of her almost wondering what she wanted with him. The eye of the storm surrounds this room, heavy and clouded by the judgement of three people. For a second, it's calm and then she smiles, lets the red of her lips turn upwards before she pushes forward with a determined look.

Lips meet lips as Jacynth makes it all sweet and fire, like the cinnamon gum she would chew. Soft meeting rough lips making sure the lipstick stains and the taste of something so sweet and yet so bitter meet together. Pulling away, she winks to the trainer as he looks distraught knowing this wasn't normal. Silently, she pushes back and leaves the trainer to his own thoughts, stuck in the storm that she just created upon his mind. Silently, she reveals the third item she prepared. A vial with a liquid that was known as a miracle in Four, something her father had forced her to make after an accident. A cure to some poisons she's made, a cure to be so sweet and eat away at all the bitterness inside a person.

"The games aren't always about violence or strength." A smirk upon her lips as she glares back towards the strength trainer, confusion bubbling on his face. The red stain of lipstick still there, needles in her palm, waiting for the storm. "I always find the brutality boring personally. No tribute plays the games right and I'm here to prove that to you." Holding the vial forward, she lets them take in the small bottle for a moment before she continues. "Everyone thinks it's about surviving, but I think it's about toying with your prey. Make them squirm under the hold you have." Brushing her hair back, she turns to the strength trainer before she continues to reveal what she did with a single kiss.

"There was poison on my lips. The lipstick carried the poison, hope you didn't digest some of that."

The strength trainer's eyes widened at her reveal.

"Don't worry, big guy. I have the antidote right here."

Holding out the third vial, she smirks at the trainer. Letting the air grow with tension as the trainer rushes to grab it. Silently, this was her plan. Poison was a woman's tool according to her father. A pathetic way to get rid of others, but poison wasn't weak. Poison was the best way of suffering. A storm that broke through the body, until the person falls weakly into the rain, begging to be saved. None of them would be saved. Holding the antidote up, she winks to the big guy before she downs the entirety of the antidote, tossing the vial to the ground with a shattering sound.

"Oops, looks like the only way to get cured, big guy is to fight me."

A smirk on her lips as she pulls herself back, standing into a stance meant to protect her. The big guy ends up swiftly grabbing a spiked blunt, heavy, but durable and able to leave swift strikes upon mistakes. The dance starts as he swings the weapon, she ducks, moving out of his range, gently watching the movements. A strike forward as she sidesteps with a giggle from her lips, words slipping from her voice. "Come on, big guy, you gotta be faster than that. Is the poison making you sluggish already?" Another heavy swing, but this time, she has to move like a wave, bouncing back before springing forward.

A needle in her fingertips as she knows where to strike. The quickest entry point to the body was a vein, the arm was the easiest to strike, so she moved forward, stabbing the needle into the trainer's forearm. A smile on her lips as she pulls back, ducking under another swing before stabbing another needle into big guy's hand. He groans in pain, even though it wasn't as painful as the spiked blunt in his hands. A swish of hair as she quickly pokes into his arm, then his shoulder, and lastly his neck, knowing at least four of the needles had struck a vein.

A storm was brewing underneath his skin and all she had to do was wait. With the dosage she used, it would only take fifteen to thirty minutes. Silently, she steps back dodging move after move. One by one, the storm in his body brews and the sweat on his face gives way to the pain she knows is in his arms. Shaky hands gripping the spiked blunt as he swings once more, she ducks under it, moving forward to his cheek before laying a big red smear on it. A laugh upon her lips as she side steps out of there until the sound of pain rings out in her ears. Fifteen minutes pass and she knows what's happening, but the gamemakers might not.

Big guy falls to the ground, the spiked blunt sliding across the mat.

"Useless."

Silently, she kicks big guy's ribs, hearing a crunch as she watches his arms begin to convulse. Slowly, it spread through his body, creating convulsions as she smiles. Born to poison, this was her show of skill. The perfect place to show what horrors the body can experience. All she needed was some time and she wouldn't disappoint. Everything was about how to control someone's hands and hearts, twist them into her own and watch the fireworks. All it takes is a single storm to ruin a town, break apart the people.

In the end, Jacynth Voclain would be that storm.

"I'll make the tributes squirm like the bugs they are."

Softly, she blows a kiss to the gamemakers before she steps away.

The bittersweet taste of poison upon her lips.

[*]

Disclaimer: This does involve consumption of some buggies. Please do not eat while reading this, and enjoy. ^_^ Cheers!

Carbon Chem

I breathe.

The presence of every single person gone after I am the last one to go. Alone. Suffering worse then the game makers by watching my fellow tributes walk in and get back to what remains of their lives while I am wasting mine. The thought that the game makers would be winding down and ready to get out of there weighs heavily on my thoughts. They will be either half asleep, or drunk off their asses by the time I get in there and do what I can only assume will be a hefty attempt to draw their attention to myself.

At least, in some way or form, they'll remember me.

Hopefully -

And there, my name is called once again, only this time, It won't be to walk that endless trail to the stage and stand among my peers. No empty emotions that weep with solidarity that they were free for the rest of their lives or the fact that they will have to face it another year.

It's quiet as I open the door. The clack of my shoes beat against the floor with a deafening echo. As I take my place near the plants station, I observe a series of fabric covering several jars. Under those coverings, will be my only attempt to show these gamemakers that they can't define a human by how they grew up, but by how they managed to survive.

I stopped, gazing at the area where they were seated and as I assumed correctly, they were pretty much in awe that I was the final one to bore them today, or so they thought.

"Carbon Chem. District Twelve." I look over to the displays neatly placed and take my place behind the desk and place my hand against the first cloth. "Twelve is as far south as the capital is north in comparison. I wasn't given the lives you were given. I wasn't raised to drink the aged wine, I guess. Lucky me. I got something better though."

I pull off the first cloth, revealing several small creatures inside of it. Too small for the eyes of the gamemakers where they were, so he reached inside to the small stick with something lathered on it as an attractant. "In district twelve, I was introduced to hunger. With that, we are taught to survive with any means necessary."

The ants that covered the stick are then brought to my mouth. I stuck out my tongue and just like that -

They were gone.

I looked up to the box once more before moving to the second cloth and already I could hear the faint chirps of the second ill-fated creatures to endure this horrendous event. Removing the cloth, I opened the lid and the sound of the chirps became louder, less muffled. "It's easy to remember the order of the food chain, when you are at the highest peak." I dip my fingers in and engulf a single cricket in my hand before popping it into my mouth. A few needed movements only confirmed the creature's disappearance.

I put the lid back on the crickets, not wanting them to escape and possibly become endangered by someone's boot. The next cloth, this time purple, was lifted and a single beetle walked around on the bottom. The size of it is just barely bigger than my thumb in length. "Did you know that if you can properly roast these, they do have a nutty flavor to them? I would try one, if you ever feel adventurous in your life."

Before they can blink, I pick up the beetle without hesitation and bite into it with a satisfying crunch. The grin on my face while chewing was highly detectable waiting on their reactions. "That one was the long horned beetle. Though, I do prefer them to be roasted. Raw isn't as delectable. This next one though, is something new I've never tried. I had to ask for this special."

I put down the rest of the beetle I didn't consume and removed the next cloth from the last one. "This is my finale." The top of the jar is removed and I quickly pinch the tail of the scorpion before pulling it from the jar. It began to thrash about, wiggling in my grasp as I watched it. I've never seen one up close but I've always wanted to try it. I'm not a stranger to picking up strange insects, but this one I've read about and got advised before even attempting this.

"A single sting could kill you if you are not experienced or mindful of the dangers. However, I've never been all too scared of a good challenge." I pinch off the edge of the creature's tail that contained the barb and venom sack as it passed my lips. I make eye contact with the gamemakers, the one in the middle. While still chewing, I bow my head and drop the barb and venom sack back into the jar before taking my leave.

"You'd be surprised what someone can do to survive, when surviving is all they know how to do." I take my leave, closing the door behind me.

[rook]

ÆSAHÆTTR

Now you must perform, they say, for a number - to put next to your other number, to be displayed high up on a big silver screen full of faces and names and statistics, like it's all just one big calculation waiting for someone to solve. They call it a game, dress it up with bright lights and glitter and loud booming voices echoing around magnificent stadia, but when they ship us out to whatever bespoke built arena will be our battleground, it's still the same as it's ever been. Life and death.

Fate mocks me from on high, sneering as I'm forced to dance for my captors. Once I would have relished the opportunity to show off my many skills. I considered myself an artist, drawing lines on the backs of other men with the tip of a knife whilst they scrambled around trying to do the same to me, forever unable to touch my skin, candlelight shadows.

Now destiny has abandoned me and left my mortality seeping from my fingerless right hand. I was The Godkiller, the untouchable spectre of District Eight. Champion of the forgotten. I meant something to people, I had purpose. I suppose it was never my glory to own, for my blessing was nothing more than a temporary gift from some greater power, taken from me in an instant.

One mistake, one cruel twist of fate and there I lay - bleeding into the mud, my back bleeding with three strikes of a knife. The cost of defeat? They cut my fingers, so that I could never fight again. It was only fair.

My name is called, and I'm instructed to follow a well-dressed woman with neat blonde hair, all tied up in a bun. She smells overly fragrant and her face is plastered with makeup, but her eyes are kind and she gives me a half-smile as she shows me to the glass double doors of the training center. I wish I had the energy to smile back.

I take my shoes off as I walk in, letting the coolness of the vinyl floor crawl up my legs. Putting on a good display is not something I have any great desire to do. Numbers do nothing for me. I'll arrive unknowingly to my fate all the same. I stride across from the balcony from which the Gamemakers watch eagerly, my eyes on a tall carbon-fibre rack of blades. I haven't held a knife in months.

Before I reach my destination, I pause and turn to my private audience - how small I must look from up there. It is polite to introduce one's self.

"I am Æsahættr." I say plainly, before translating, "The Godkiller."

I slowly start to take off my shirt, my face marble as the pain burns across my spine. I am becoming accustomed to the pain now, and I am able to remove it completely in just a few short seconds. I then slowly turn so that they can witness my horrific, mutilated back. Scars criss-cross like constellations in the night sky, burning red meteorite trails on a pale white canvas. Red lightning angry in the sky, and all the echoes of my pain.

I was cut many times fighting, sometimes just the once across the back, but more often twice. Never three times, as that meant defeat. That was until a few months ago. The most recent scars are the most prominent - three brilliant red lines across my back, sitting on top of hundreds of fainter pink lines. I know the pattern of them, when I tense my back I can feel them burn.

I let them see these scars, let them drink it in for a few seconds, and then I show them what else I have been through. I turn back to face them and begin to remove the bandages on my right hand and letting them drop to the floor, exposing my crippled stump - a twitching fingerless palm that throbs with pain.

I know that this is going to hurt, but I suppose in many ways I need to know if Æsahættr still exists. I need to know if that alternate version of myself is still within me, or if I am just Rene Rallis now.

I take a knife and hold it lightly in my left hand. It feels alien there, and my phantom fingers long to hold it in my dominant palm. Times have changed, and so has my fate.

I must adapt, become a reflection of what I was. And so I begin mirroring everything stored in my muscle memory, and run at the first dummy.

As I approach, I throw my weight backwards and slide on my shoulder, using my wounded right hand to push off the ground with a cry of pain and slash three times across the back of my enemy. I glance at my brushstrokes, three lines in an all too familiar pattern.

I move to the next dummy, staying standing this time, switching the knife in my weak hand between forehand and backhand grip, getting a feel for the weight of the blade. It feels unnatural, but I can picture what I need to do, and find the parallel movement on the left-hand side of my body needed to execute my plan. I duck and weave, becoming a shadow, using quick footwork to ebb and flow with the imaginary attacks that exist in my mind. I dance with a faux death, and wait patiently for my moment to paint red lines across my enemies back.

This time it is slow. One, then I move, and I dance, and I dodge, and two, and I weave, and place my feet, and twist, and three.

The same pattern again. Identical to the first.

I am beginning to tire, but I do not stop. I feel energized in striking these phantoms, and like a spectre myself I drift to the next, the knife gripped tightly in my left hand. It does not feel as forceful, or as natural, but I can do what I want to do. I can create the shadow of what I once was.

Three more strikes, rapid and precise and all in a few strokes of my arm as I dart past the dummy. The pattern again is clear - identical to the three recent scars on my back. Each of the targets was hit from a different angle at a different speed with unfavoured hand, and each bares the same pattern.







I would smile, if I could remember how.

The stumps of my severed fingers bleed more aggressively at my exertion. Maybe a tribute with more showmanship would take the opportunity to display their first aid skills by cleaning such a wound. I can almost hear my mentor's light and holy voice suggesting that I do so.

No.

Breathing heavily, I walk back out the way I came; a trail of blood slowly dripping from my mangled, damaged hand.