Public Training Sessions

[napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ.]

“Weaker tributes will be afraid of your reputation,” Ridley said. “Stronger tributes will either target you or ally with you. Viewers and commentators will care about who you're related to.” She paused.

“The Gamemakers won't, so you'll have to figure out a different way to impress them. Play the part that they give to you, even if you don't want it.”

She looked at him and Emerson.

“It helps to have them on your side in the beginning.”

– ✧ –

He was named by the mass as the perfect prince.

On newspapers and the reels of gossip blogs he’d been shown, that was what they had been calling him since this Games season’s dawning. Julian Le Roux, the lion prince, golden eyes, chiseled stature, here to get himself crowned. Is he in a relationship with Paris Vanburen, or is this budding romance between he and a certain career real? most mused. He is very well-versed in sword, archery, and the challenging foxtrot, some stated. Is there another Le Roux victor between the two golden lions? all spectated.

They knew of him, and they knew well.

Reputation was its own deity in this damned kingdom, and it had a faith full of the most reverent. If he glimpsed up at all the eyes on him now, they would be knowing. Another career with a glided legacy, indeed he was here to stunt and preen, a tour de force that had been dulled by repeated performance. The script, it would seem, had already written this next part for him.

So perhaps it was fortunate that he, the actor he is, would rather improvise. Tear the script, and turn on a new page. His smile towards the Gamemakers’ veranda glimmered with a hidden promise. Play the part that they give you, Ridley had said, and they all knew what part Julian had to play here. Julian clicked on the button on the stimulation panel, and marveled as light shot through the air.

And the light wove and wove delicately like it was guided by the invisible hands of Arachne herself – quick and precise. As the stimulation’s barebones appeared, the platform below also rose, hissing out a breath of air as it does, raising itself up a few inches high, not quite a stage but still a place to put on a show. The lights at each corner of the center thudded, thudded, and thudded, until they all showered the raised platform in a glow. The holograph was complete then. In the middle of the center, shimmered a golden cage around the raised platform. Julian stepped through the illusionary cage and then onto the platform, a single sword in hand. He’d been here before. In truth, he was born here, a lion raised behind a golden cage. The capitol did not see him as the perfect prince, no. He was their perfect circus animal.

But if it was a show they wanted, then they shall have it.

“Mannequins, activate,” he said the command he’d programmed, making eight matching dummies spring out from under secret panels in the platform. They bore resemblance to human males and were mirrors of each other: broad-shouldered enough to intimate, and big-muscled enough to show that this wasn’t a mere obstacle course. No, this was a challenge. And although he saw them as such, Julian let his sword clatter to the platform and walk up to its center.

“Mannequins, attac—”

The word cut off from his tongue as he suddenly tasted blood. Julian staggered back; the world spun. Mannequin or not, the punch that’d landed on his cheek was very real. He spit out a curd of red.

The mannequins descended upon him like hungry lions.

He’d rehearsed this before but that was practice, this the show. As he ducked to narrowly dodge the mechanic swing of one mannequin, another jabbed him right in the ribs – enough to knock the air from him. Fists up, he returned it. The mannequin also staggered, although it earned its footing quicker than Julian ever could. He growled at the machines. They knew him. Made from a special memory foam here at the training center, each of these mannequins knew every last move Julian had tried on them this past week by rote, and offered him even a rough estimate of how much he relied on each. He favored his left hook than his right. He loved to tauten his fist hard, meaning his punches hurt him as well as his opponent. He was better at brute strength than fleet footwork, a vanguard, not a rogue.

They knew him. Like everyone in this damned city and everyone back home, they knew who Julian was better than he ever could, and it stoked his ire. 

The robots started again, plunging towards him with a programmed vengeance. He evaded one’s grapple, and then got a star burst of pain on his cheek from another’s fist. More blood in his mouth, and now the blows came raining down on him. He punched one, got socked in the ribs from another. There was one he successfully broke, choosing to swerve around the blow instead of duck and then elbowing down, hard, on its robotic arm – the impact enough to draw that hauntingly real sound of broken bone.

Seven left.

But it wasn’t enough. The rest came in waves. One robot saw this small victory and pressed its advantage, choosing the moment to sweep at Julian’s ankle, sending him lurching to the dais, face first. He grunted as he met the platform, but there was no time for rest – he rolled, narrowly missing a punch. He was bleeding now, and the platform was slick from some of it, making his lurch back onto his feet clumsy. He eyed the battlefield.

He was outnumbered. Seven robots left standing, all brand new, and they were readying themselves, running the numbers, calculating the odds. They knew him better than he knew himself.

And so the trick here, was to bare his true self.

Because all this week, Malachi had kept it hidden under an assortment of masks and facades like he’d brought a cabinet from the circus, but he’d never let them commit his true fighting style to memory. It was all faux. He played a part, even if he didn’t want to.

The first robot whirled towards him, and swung. He was too caught up in his thoughts; Julian doubled over, spitting blood. But when the second punch came, he was ready. His feet bounded across to meet it, 1. quick on his feet, and before it made contact, Julian gave his shoulder the momentum, wind across his cheek as he spun inches away from the blow, 2. not ducking the way he did the past week. He had the barest moment to grin as he pulled free what he’d hid in the band of trousers—3. a small dagger, a single claw of steel, that he drove with a feral snarl into the mannequin’s neck. He had never used a dagger before in their previous sessions.

Blood spurted out in a maroon spray. He let the mannequin topple over as he dislodged his dagger with an unholy squelch, eyeing the remaining ones.

Six.

Julian hurled himself towards the other that came at him, full of renewed fervor. As they memorized his fighting style, he knew the things they used to counter it, too. He knew him the same. He sidestepped the robot’s first blow towards face, and then pirouetted as the second jab went for his gut. Sunny would be proud, Julian thought as he leaped to plant his dagger in the robot’s eye.

He fell with it. The other robots crowded in. But Julian used the carcass to lurch himself back onto his feet, narrowly evading the loud thump of a mannequin’s kick that met the platform instead. His eyes reflected the robots, and the golden cage around them. His eyes burned with it. When another came, he was quicker – he sliced away at its throat before it could move, cutting out a bunch of plastic tubes and faux blood. The platform was slick with it now, but his plan had succeeded. In the midst of the combat, he’d gotten back to the place where he’d left his sword.

Five.

Another came, and this time, he gave it no chance – Julian rammed it in body-first like a wrecking ball, the recoil like a gun shot, and then gutted it cleanly.

Four.

Two crowded in. One relied on his arm, swinging it right at Julian’s throat only to run itself into the sharp edge of his blade. The arm becomes cleaved in two. With a growl in his throat, he kicked it back against the other robot that’d tried to join ranks. His blade went through both their chests as they righted themselves. Blood flowed down his hands, making them slick, marking them red. He was a prince, but also a lion.

Two.

He eyed them now as they eyed him, both parties readying themselves for their next move. Julian didn’t make it first though – they did. With surprising speed, they rounded him up, but this time, instead of attacking, they spun around. Julian’s breath caught in his throat as one hooked an arm his throat.

His sword spun, and then it was thrust backwards into the mannequin’s side. Steel jutted from other side, then hissed as Malachi wrenched the blade free.

One.

He faced the last. After that fight, this one knew him better than the others now, knew of his moves, both faux and true. The robot’s eyes were calculating as they watched him loosen his grasp on the hilt of his sword and let it clatter to the now blood-soaked platform. What did they use for it? Tomato sauce? Red dye? The substance feels viscous on his forearms and in between his knuckles that he flex. He made a gesture with his stained fingers: come at me.

The robot did, whirling mechanically onto him, a fist made for a knock out. But before it could make impact, he caught it. The wrist. His veins leapt through his skin as his features scrunched up, holding the robot’s hand there. And before the robot could use its other, Julian broke it clean with a roar. Bones jutted out grotesquely and with another too real sound, but he disregarded it all to stomp his boot against the robot’s chest, hard.

The mannequin toppled over, creaking in protest as Julian took a single, shaky step towards it, then another, confident one. What felt like his first, real breath during all of this was a burst of pain both sharp and dull in his lungs, but it never made his face falter as his chin rose to look where they are, the Gamemakers. The look was accented by the sickening crunch bone makes as he shatters the mannequin’s skull.

Zero.

“I believe you’ve been informed by the trainers of what purpose these lay figures have been made for,” Julian said, the burn of his voice carrying over the room with a thunderstorm’s valor. “A tribute must be able to put on an act as well as they can fight.” Play the part they give you, even if you don’t want to. He smiled. His teeth were red and wet. “Don’t worry, Bambi will bring back the perfect prince again in an hour or so. Bruises can always be covered.” And so were ruthless streaks. Julian was a prince, polite and cheery, but there was also a twisted, hungry animal thing in him that he took pains to keep on a leash. For the Gamemakers though, he’d let it perform, he’d let it dance.

Julian had played his part, and thought he’d done it well, but he’d also made a point: they don’t know the full of him.

No one can, no one will, Julian mused as he let the tension bleed out of his shoulders and attempted not to stumble as he stepped down from the stage, walking out to where an avox stood ready with a cold towel.

Not when I don’t even know who I truly am.

– ✧ –

Play the part that they give to you, even if you don't want it.

It helps to have them on your side in the beginning.

The lovely Ridley dialogue is from Stare!

[Deleted]

O

❝ 𝑾𝒆 𝒘𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒐𝒍𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒘𝒆 𝒎𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒉𝒐𝒘 𝒃𝒆𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒘𝒆 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒏𝒐𝒕, 𝒔𝒂𝒄𝒓𝒊𝒇𝒊𝒄𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒘𝒆 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒊𝒏𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒎𝒂𝒔𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒅𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒘𝒆 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒃𝒆. ❞


His entire life he had been the forgotten underdog. After all, it's easy to be forgotten when you're in the middle of fourteen siblings and not even your own parents could come up with a more creative name for you than the number you are in the birth order - number six. His whole life he had sat on the sidelines, watching and observing. He had observed as other children his age made friends. He watched his brothers play wrestle as he stood on standby with the first aid kid, too worried he was going to hurt them.

Six never wanted to hurt anyone. He had always been the timid and pacifistic brother - that was his identity in the family. But, just like everything else, the Capitol was ripping that part of him away. They stole away his family, his childhood, his identity, his humanity, and possibly his life. He knew some things he would never get back, even if he won. He would never be able to get back his childhood or his identity, and every victors life belongs to the Capitol. So he was here fighting for what he could still redeem. His humanity and his family.

At this point Six O'Malley was desperately clinging to the little bit of his humanity that he had left. He could no longer be Six O'Malley, a gentle farm boy from district eleven. But maybe one day he could find a way to be human again. He knew that for now he had to get rid of most of his humanity. The Capitol wanted him to be a murderer for their enjoyment, and his humanity was the sacrifice he'd have to make for them to get what they wanted. He was willing to make that sacrifice.

Today, he was going to show that he was still human. He still felt pain. He still bled. Yet, he was going to do it while still pretending to be what the Capitol wanted him to be - a sinner. He ran through the plan one more time in his head. This was risky. But, they would remember him hopefully. That was another thing he wanted to prove. He wanted to show that he wasn't just here to be fodder. He was here to win. And in order to win, you have to be remembered. You need to stand out and get sponsors. He just hoped this didn't backfire, because it very well could in multiple ways.

Then, it was time. He took a deep breath before going in and a silent prayer, ' Lord, please give me the strength to do this. Please remember that I am sorry for what I have done and will do. '

Once he entered he spoke, perhaps this is the loudest his voice had been since he entered the Capitol. All of the other tributes saw him as a quiet mouse who never should have left the countryside, and maybe that was true. But the Gamemakers didn't need ton know that. They needed to believe what they wanted him to believe. He just had to keep faking confidence and bravery. He needed to finally be seen as more than just a scared kid.

"Six O'Malley, district eleven."

After he spoke he paused a moment so they could have time to realise they were being spoken to and hopefully draw their attention to him. Then he looked around the room. In the room he had a few things set up. He went to the first area, a simple weapons rack. The rack only had bladed weapons - primarily swords and knives. This is one of the stations Six had struggled with the most in his training. His initial cuts were too shallow and short - he was worried about hurting someone. But he told himself that they were just training dummies, and now he was confident enough in his ability with bladed weapons to bet his score on those abilities.

He had thought about it for a long while before coming in today on whether or not he would narrate what he was doing and why he was doing it. On one hand, it showed his knowledge. It showed all he had learned since arriving at the Capitol. It allowed him to prove that his strategies were just that - strategic, not random cuts. It showed he was smart, not some stupid farmer. On the other hand, he worried about his voice. The shakes and whimpers. Especially during the end. But he decided that what he had planned at the end would hopefully beat any vocal queues of nervousness or discomfort.

"Swords and knives, the two primary bladed weapons used in Games. Each one has advantages and disadvantages depending on the user."

First he went over and grabbed a sword. He stood with his legs about shoulders width apart and knees slightly bent. He did a single slash of the sword into the air going from the top right down towards the bottom left. Then he simply held the sword, resting the flat part of the blade against his shoulder as he continued to speak to the Gamemakers.

"Swords are better for longer-ranged combat with knives. However, there are a few important details about using swords. They're a lot less precise than knives. With swords there are eight basic attacks you can use, not including the obvious of trying to stab your opponent. It's also easy to fall into a rhythm when it comes to sword play, leaving you open to attack. Swords are definitely a viable option, but me personally, I prefer a knife."

And with that he put back the sword and grabbed a knife instead. The knife  was fairly basic, with a six inch long-blade. However, it was very sharp as if it had never been used - which it possibly hadn't been. He studied it for a moment, confirming this was the knife that he wanted. After all, unlike the sword this knife wasn't just for show. This would be the knife he would use for the rest of his session. After he decided to stick with it he turned his attention back to speaking to the Gamemakers.

"The precision of the knives help when you know what exactly needs to be targetted. Which, I know what I want to target."

He walked over the second section of the room he had prepared, still holding the knife. This was just a training dummy. However, it wasn't just plastic and stuffing. It was anatomically the same as a human being. It had the same muscles, bones, veins, and organs - as well as everything else that made a human. It was also as strong as a human, meaning in order to cut through muscle or break a bone you had to use the same force as you would on an average adult human. It also meant it bled out fake blood like a human being too.

Here he wanted to show that not only did he learn valuable information from the blades station, but he paid attention and even did extra research into the first aid station. After this idea popped into his head he looked into anatomy and physiology books to find more useful information. Thus, here he could combine that knowledge to show he was deadly. He wasn't just a scared mouse, he wasn't the prey for once in his life. He was a predator, ready to strike.

"In the human body there are almost 100,000 miles of veins if you stretch them all out. We also have 20 major arteries - as well as some minor ones, one heart, and two lungs. Severing a vein or artery, stabbing the heart, or puncturing a long are all deaths that are possible with one simple knife. Some of these deaths take longer than others, but at the end of the day, dead are dead."

Six began to feel a little uneasy about this whole thing. The words coming out of his mouth didn't feel like his own. They weren't his own, he reminded himself. Right now he was not Six O'Malley the human being. He was Six O'Malley the tribute, the monster, the sinner, and maybe even the victor if he played his cards right. But despite reminding himself of that, he could feel his sins crawling on his back. It was as if God himself was watching from that Gamemakers perch. But God could keep watching him, he was going to end up in Hell regardless. The Capitol would make sure of that.

"The first death I mentioned were severing veins. There are several veins we could go with, but this is something first aid could fix. We can't have our target running to go get help. This is where the human muscular system comes in."

He stepped behind the training dummy, then took some steps back so he was a few feet behind him so the Gamemakers could still clearly see him as he spoke to them. After all, the dummy was the size of the average adult human male and Six was far below that height.

"On the back of each thigh is a hamstring. Severing this muscle will make the target unable to leave, to run, or even really turn around to fight back. They'll be helpless, totally helpless."

Six was tired of being helpless. He had been helpless his whole life. He  had been helpless when he got bullied for being from the weird family. He wanted to say his family wasn't weird. He loved them. In fact, his family was the only reason he was here right now. They were the reason he was fighting. They were the reason he let the Capitol take his identity. He was helpless as a peacekeeper pinned down his brother in the justice building after the reaping. He couldn't fight for Lock then. But now? He wasn't helpless anymore. He could fight. He would fight.

And with that he made a sudden movement towards the dummy. He took a few steps forwards and suddenly swiped towards the back of the left thigh towards the right. It took all of Six's strength but in that movement he cut completely through the dummy's hamstring. Fake blood from the dummy began to spill out of the thigh, some drops of it dripped off the blade onto Six's hand. Then he suddenly went for the right thigh, repeating the same motion and once again tearing through the hamstring. He gave the dummy a little push and it was on it's knees.

Now Six was taller than the dummy. He tried not to look at the fake blood that was beginning to pool towards his feet. He struggled to remind himself that it wasn't real. He hadn't hurt anyone. He looked up at the Gamemakers, not having to take a step back to be seen now. And for once? He felt seen. He felt noticed. It was terrifying yet exhilarating at the same time. He was Six O'Malley and he was seen.

"Now that the target can't get help, I can target any vein I want. From standing behind him at this angle the easiest target would be the subclavian vein. This vein allows blood to travel to the heart from the upper extremities. It's a major vein and gets a lot of blood flow - especially with how close it is to the artery. So, they'll bleed out faster before anyone finds them."

And with that, he stabbed the dummy on the front of its right side just below the collar bone. At first blood slowly leaked, until he removed the knife. Once he removed it,  blood squirted out, like someone was squeezing a near-empty ketchup bottle. It squirted onto his hand and the knife, of course. He moved to the front of the dummy again and with the knife removed the skin by where he cut the dummy.

"See where I cut? That's the subclavian vein. Next to it is the subclavian artery. I managed to hit the vein without severing the artery. But, that's next."

With that announcement he made his way over to the third station he had set up. This one was identical to the last station - a hyperrealistic training dummy and nothing else. After all, he didn't need anything else. No humans were getting hurt yet.

"Severing an artery is a much faster death than severing a vein. No sneaking up is needed. But, this also means I'll have to fight them. People are more protective of their face and chest, plus there's bone near the subclavian artery. Instead, I'll use my height to my advantage and find an easier target to hit."

Six knew what he wanted to do, but walked a couple circles around the dummy as if he was considering his options anyway. He was starting to feel uneasy about this whole thing and needed a little bit of time to calm down. After completing two circles around the dummy, he continued to speak once again. He reminded himself that this was all for his family.

"In the upper part of the thigh contains the femoral artery. This is an easy to hit target due to my height and the fact that people aren't as defensive of their legs as they are their chest. Plus, it's surrounded by fat so if I miss I don't have to worry about hitting bone, I can just start tearing up their leg."

In one swift movement he bent down and stabbed the targets upper thigh. He then ripped out the knife and took a leap backwards. After all, he was stimulating a combat scenario and in this scenario the target could  counterattack him if he wasn't careful. The blood squirted out at a much higher rate than when he attacked the vein, as if the ketchup bottle was about half full. Again, Six did everything he could to pretend the fake blood wasn't there and move onto the fourth station.

The fourth station was again identical to the two previous ones - just a training dummy.

"Now the heart. The heart is the most obvious way to make someone bleed out. But, precision is important. The bones in the ribs are there to protect the heart. Also, there have been cases where missing the heart by even a millimeter has resulted in the person recovering. This is for when you want to be certain of death."

Like the previous times, he started a few feet away from the training dummy. But this time, he narrated his actions as he did it instead of doing it before or after, "You'll need to wait for an opening when their arms aren't in front of their chest. Then, in one swift movement you need to slip the blade between their ribs and push it as far as you can go in, maybe twist it for good measure. Then rip it out, it's holding in the blood, and run back before they can retaliate with their last bit of life."

And sure enough, he was right. The moment he removed the blade blood bubbled and gushed out of the wound. His hand was nearly covered in blood after that one. It made him feel sick. He felt like a monster. He was so nonchalantly talking about ending another humans life in such a brutal way. He was glad these were private. He couldn't imagine one of his younger siblings hearing their sweet, big brother talk this way. Unfortunately, little did they know that their sweet, big brother had died the moment his name was pulled out of the bowl. He still loved them, but he was different now. He had given that up to play this sick game and maybe see them again. He was becoming what they wanted - a monster.

He went to the fifth station. This one varied slightly. It was another hyperrealistic dummy, but this one didn't have any skin. It's lungs were also visible - to clear and inflated sacs covered in little blood vessels.

"There are several ways to use a knife to kill a target with it's lungs. I want to stab the lung, puncturing it. This will cause air to escape from the lung into the chest cavity causing a pneumothorax. This will collapse the lung. However, this itself could be fixed if the air went back into the lung. So we can't have that. Once the blade is it I will slice up into as many blood vessels as I can. The blood will also pool inside the chest cavity and in the lung itself. This will cause two things. The first is a haemothorax. This will work with the pneumothorax to stop the lung from expanding. The second result will be blood dripping back into the lung. The victim will be able to feel their lungs choking on their own blood until their painful death."

As he described that death he promised himself he would never make it a reality. He would show he knows how to do it here, but it would never leave this room. No one else would ever know what has become of Six O'Malley. And then, he did it. He closed his eyes as he stabbed into the lung then suddenly thrust the blade upwards. As he said, the lung he stabbed into rapidly flattened. Then suddenly blood began pouring out of the tiny blood vessels into the chest cavity and of course all over Six's hand, wrist, and even his arm. It also dripped into the dummy's torn up lungs. This dummy was dead, there was no doubt about that.

Finally he went to the last station. This one was the most different yet. On a table there was a damp washcloth, a small metal can filled partially with water, a burner, a small can of ice cubes, a needle and thread, and some medicinal plants. He wanted to show his abilities at not just first aid, but also at another station that he thoroughly enjoyed - medicinal plants. Medicinal plants was educational, useful, and didn't make him feel like some sort of subhuman being. Here, he was going to remind everyone he was human. That the Capitol couldn't take that away from him no matter how much they tried.

"As I said in the beginning, a severed vein could be fixed. And here I'm going to show you how."

First he took the damp washcloth to clean the fake blood from the dummies off of himself and the knife. Then he prepared the medicinal plants for use. To do this first he took marshmallow root and cut it into pieces, then put it in the can with water and put the can on the burner, heating it up. While he waited for that to boil he also grabbed a second plant, gotu kola. He cut the leaves from the plant off of the stems and by the time he finished the water was boiling. He took the ice and dumped it into the can, turning off the burner. It would be cool enough for use by the time he finished.

"Now, an ally could heal your wounds. But what happens if your hamstrings get cut? You'll have to be able to save your own life. Today I am going to do just that, save my own life."

 He put his arm onto the table then did one cut, severing the vein that goes down the front of your forearm. Instantly his body froze for a second from the shock as he let out a cry and he felt a wave of intense nausea come over him. He felt like vomiting, but he told himself he couldn't. He had to see this thing through to the end. So with a shaky hand he tied the thread to the needle and began to stitch himself out, letting out a whimper whenever the needle entered his skin. Then he grabbed the can of now cooled marshmallow root tea.

Marshmallow root tea when applied topically like a salve has been known to help with the healing of wounds and fight inflammation. He poured it all over his wound with a shaky hand. Then he began to eat the gotu kola leaves. The gota kola leaves were known for helping connective tissue repair faster, helping wounds repair, and prevent bad scars. He would still have a scar from this, but hopefully it wouldn't be too nasty.

As the adrenaline wore off and he stood up, he suddenly felt faint as he was hit with another wave of intense nausea. His used the table to support himself and felt his entire body shaking life a leaf. And he spoke to the Gamemakers one last time, hoping that what he did was impressive enough. He doubted many people before hand had stitched up their own wounds. He hoped that what he did here today would be memorable. If not, at least he accomplished one thing. He proved once and for all that he was human.

"Thank y'all for your time..."

[six o'malley, district 11]
[ quote by shane koyczan]]

[mat]

[googlefont="Big Shoulders Stencil Display:400;"]

Evan MacMillan

It takes forever for them to finally call his name. The tributes have vacated the waiting room one by one, leaving only him, a trainer, and a pair of avoxes standing around, arms crossed impatiently. Evan is excited to show the Game Makers the thoughts that roam like horses in an open field, but more importantly, he's excited to throw his hat into the ring in a few days and make his ideas into reality in the arena.

One of the trainers warned him not to harm any of the trainers, Game Makers, or avoxes in his trial, as they've had a problem or two with that in the past. Evan didn't like this idea, as it made everything seem much less realistic if actual death wasn't permitted to prove his point, but he accepted it. The gear around the training center gave him ideas of how to circumvent it, though. That is, to reduce the risk of serious harm if necessary.

The door in front of him slides open on cue from his footsteps, and they echo a million times over as he makes his way to the center. Now is the time to make the MacMillan estate proud, he thinks. Maybe if he impresses them enough or gives them a strong character for their television show, they may be inclined to help his father and the mines out, whether he wins or not.

"Good afternoon! Or evening, I guess, it's hard to tell with no windows or clocks about." Evan shuffles towards the machete laying on the rack of melee weapons. It's hard for him to tell what he prefers: machete, ax, sword, spear. A pickaxe would be his ideal choice, but their selection in the Capitol is thin. It's time to play, not to work, he reminds himself. It's his job to use a pickaxe, so anything else must be more fun.

Surely by now, they're tired of watching the other tributes perform. Lackluster, boring, undesirable. There are few positive attributes that Evan could offer to the buzzkills that he's forced to compete with. He hopes they'll appreciate their finale, so to speak, with him. He turns to the shelf of armor, layers and layers for the chest, legs, arms, even a helmet or two that the trainers recommended everyone wear during practice. He calls over one of the avoxes, motioning them to put on as much attire as they can. He helps them strap the vest against their back, and he tightens the helmet so it fits as firmly as possible. He tells them to stand about five or ten yards away from him, and to run when he starts to run after them.

"The Hunger Games are a challenge of cat and mouse, wolf and deer, the chaser and the chased." And with that, he nods towards the avox, whose eyes are wide with fear. He takes his first step and so do they. The chase around the training center begins.

He makes up the distance by the time the avox makes it to the rows of stuffed dummies and mannequins and the melee and target ranges. Every step they take away from Evan, closes the gap by two. The avox crouches around the dummies as Evan raises his machete. Shielding themselves from an inevitable hit. He swings at the leg of the dummy they hide behind, letting the thing chop from its feet and tip over, revealing the fully armored avox. He's unrelenting, though, and doesn't let them get much further away before he takes another swing, this time landing and cutting through a layer of the avox's vest. He assumes their adrenaline is popping, even if there was no serious pain, as their pace advances for a few moments as they turn to the weapons rack.

As he draws in closer to the avox catching their breath, he prepares his second shot with the machete, kicking it safely and gently against his side to pump himself up. He's in reach of the avox now. They've stopped moving, instead curling their arm against one of the training racks. Evan raises his machete again, but the avox tries something new. They throw down the rack, letting the knives and swords resting on it clash with the thump of a million pots and pans against the ground. The rack only drops halfway, with the rack to Evan's left barely holding it up.

The avox breathes a momentary sigh of relief, but MacMillans aren't so easy to lose focus. He begins to chase around the fallen rack, careful not to trip over the blades lying around the ground. The avox is slower, hesitant on whether to keep looping him around or try and deceive him by going some other way. Their choice is the wrong one. They begin to climb over the rack, tip-toeing through the assortment of knives and mini scythes that point in a million different directions after the fall. Evan turns back into the direction where the avox is crawling and grabs them by the collar of the vest. They're light as a feather, probably from the starvation the Capitol forces them into.

He carries them back to the center. The chase is over, but the fun is not. He drops them on the ground, and they struggle to get back up. The final hurrah.

"Memento mori," he says to the Game Makers. Evan raises both his arms, machete in one hand, clenched fist in another.

The avox begins to crawl out of his reach, but Evan steps on the back of their calf and holds them down, leaving them motionless, paralyzed with fear rather than injury. He raises his machete once more and lays it down into the armor of the avox. He finds himself to be gentle, weary that if he smashes too hard he might reach their bone. But his force slams just as hard as it needs to be to tear and rip through the vest. He finds the angle they used to strap on the protection on their legs and rips through the armor on from their thigh to ankle. And lastly, he takes to their head, or helmet, rather hitting the base just hard enough to let the metal material chip, bend, shift, and crack, but not break. And he finished. Other than the occasional bruise or emotional pain, they'll certainly be fine. Evan gave it seventy, maybe seventy-five percent of his effort. At one hundred, in the Hunger Games, he'll surely go for the kill.

"Memento mori." He says once more before patting the avox on the back a couple times and turning away towards the exit.

"Remember death."



​
​
​
​
​
​
​
​
​​
​
​
​
​
​





​
​
​

​
​
​

[k!ah]

m a u v e .

The night before~

He doesn't expect anything as she approaches, her lashes lowered, a coy smile on her lips. Seeing her approach he puts down his notebook, his eyes moving slowly up her body. She had made sure to wear her tightest uniform, the one that hugged her curves and pushed her breast up a little higher. She bites her lip, her eyes dropping from his as though she was nervous under his gaze. She takes note of the way he stands, of the potential weapons that might be on his person. She had made sure to approach him when the training room was at its quietest, the last few trainers had packed away, leaving their intern to finish the rest.

She gives a short nervous chuckle, her blue eyes meeting with brown ones. "Do you think you could give me a hand?" Her voice is laced with what would sound like genuine curiosity, her hands clasped loosely behind her back. "I can't quite seem to get the rope put away. It's kinda heavy." She shrugs, gesturing over her shoulder to the battle ropes that lay spread out on the gym floor.

He gives her an easy grin, one hand gentle squeezing her shoulder as he moved past her, "don't worry, love, I'll put it away." She tries not cringe at his touch, and the endearment he tossed over his shoulder. Instead she rolls her eyes, making sure to keep just half a pace behind him. They were alone now, just the two of them. She would not have much time to move, the peacekeeper ration only took a few minutes and she would have to have the body hidden in the synthetic forest before they came back, a challenge that she was not quite sure she could pull it off. She was worried she might get consumed with the need to hear him scream, ruining her plans.

The private training session were scheduled for tomorrow, meaning she had a long night ahead of her.

He leans down, picking up the ropes and she lunges, throwing her body at his. Unsuspecting her attack his knees break, folding and hitting the ground hard. He grunts, cursing, "what the hell are you doing-" his words are cut off, her arm coming around his throat to cut off his oxygen. She pulls back as hard as she can, panting in his ear as she fought off his resistance.

Fighting against her, he rolls onto his back, attempting to crush her under his weight. But she doesn't give, even as the air is knocked from her lungs she keeps a tight grasp on his throat, desperate to crush his windpipe. "Fuck you, love," she whispers into his ear a moment before she bites down into his neck, breaking flesh her mouth fills with blood. He cries out, cursing and Mauve feels a rush of excitement, she wanted to hear more, she needed to hear more- but she didn't have time.

Spitting out blood she squeezes tighter, "just die, sweetheart, do us both a favour." His struggles become weaker, she glances at his face to see it reddish blue, eyes bulging as the veins in his neck threaten to burst. "Come on..." She squeezes again, as hard as she can and she feels something snap, his neck giving way. Fuck. She wasn't supposed to break his neck- or bite him for that matter. She would have to clean that up, and quick, removing any evidence of his struggle.

"Okay."

Climbing to her feet she quickly rolls up the ropes, stashing them in a corner before she leans down grabbing the dead interns ankles. She had scouted out the forest over the last few days, looking for the perfect place to stash the body. It wasn't to far away, one of the reasons why she had chosen to use the ropes as her bait. She begins to drag him along, grunting with effort. "My god, you are so fucking heavy." Her gaze flicks to the clock, by he calculations she had two minutes left to get the body hidden and the blood cleaned.

She had to move quicker.

Sighing she picks up the pace, her eyes flicking to the clock every few seconds. After about a minute she had the body hidden and was jogging over to the bloody mess. She had ripped off the interns shirt, and used it as a rag, making sure that not one drop was left behind.

10 seconds.

Quickly she scrambles to her feet, sprint to the cover of the synthetic bushes. She has just hidden herself away when she hears the scrap of the doors opening. She holds her breath as a voice over a radio confirms that it is all clear a moment before the door slams shut, the sound echoing through the silent room. Letting out her breath, her lips hook back into a shit eating grin. Let the games begin. Slipping into the forrest, to her hidden body, she gets to work.

---

Today~

Mauve lazily stretches herself out onto the bench, yawning as she shifts to rest her head against her fore arm. It had taken her longer than expected last night to finish her preparations. It was not until the early hours of the morning that she crawled into her apartments, crashing the moment her head hit the pillow. It had felt like the moment she closed her eyes she had been woken, told to prepare for the private sessions that were to take place this morning. Her head felt heavy, the coffee she had chugged not quite having taken effect. Closing her eyes she waits for her name to be called.

"Mauve Morganstern, District Three."

Her name has her pushing herself to her feet, her mouth wide in a yawn as she enters the room. Its quiet, like it was last night, save from the three Gamemakers that say safety behind a screen in a private room. Mauve's gaze runs over each of them, her face expressionless as she takes them in. If Victors were untouchable, a forbidden fruit that Mauve had greedily taken a bite from... Then what were Gamemakers? She wondered if it would be worth her life to hear them cry out her name in pain. They were a delicacy, one that most likely has never been touched by a the hand of a peasant from the districts. Her gaze locks with each one of them, her head tilted to the side ever so slightly. No, she decided. One scream would not be worth a lifetime worth of pain to still inflict.

Shrugging, she turns towards one of the dummies, dragging it to the center of the room. Then she makes her way towards the synthetic forest, to where the freshly skinned body was stashed. There was a slight smell in the air, but Mauve brushes it off, grabbing the gym bag she had stashed last night, the skin and some of Atticus's clothing.

Back at the dummy she pulls out the skin. It's messy, unlike when she was back home, she didn't have the equipment to correctly preserve the flesh, causing a foul smell to waft from it. Her noses crinkles, and she fights the urge to gag as she begins to slip the skin onto the dummy. It was like sliding on a wet suit, slipping the arms in carefully, cautious not to tear the flesh more than necassary. The skin is a tight fit, the intern's figure slightly slimmer than the dummy. She should have taken the time to stretch it out a little more.

After a few more moments of struggle the skin is fitted tight against the dummies flesh. Fishing through the gym bag she pulls out some needle and thread, moving to the dummies rear to sew the inseam. It's a rushed job, flesh pulled at rough angles making it look like poorly stitched stitches. But she didn't have time to make it perfect. Moving back around to the front she makes a few adjustments, fixing how the face sat on the dummy, the interns youthful skin looking a little more aged and discoloured... But still handsome in its own, unnerving way.

Satisfied she gives him- it- a smile, patting it on the cheek before pulling out one of Atticus's shirt and pants, struggling momentarily to get the legs through the pant holes. "Come on, damnit," she grunts under her breath, frustrated. Finally she gets them on, buttoning them up before she slips on the shirt, leaving the chest exposed.

She examines her piece for a moment longer, her eyes taking in the bite marks on its neck, and the bruises on the cheek and chin and wrapped around its neck. Maybe she should have been more careful. Oh well, maybe this could work in her favour, she thinks as she shrugs, turning to face the Gamemarkers.

"Mauve Morganstern," she starts, her voice bored as she preformed the traditional introductions. "And today I leave you with a gift: Atticus Manor. Or a metaphor, that the untouchable might not be so untouchable." The skin of a Capitolite dressed up as one of the Capitols Darling Victors. Mauve was toeing with the line here, knowing that her actions here over the last two days, might very well be her signing her death certificate. She was almost certain that after this crime, even though confidential to the rest of the Panem, she would not leave the Arena alive, and if she did she would be kept on a very tight leash.

Mauve's gaze slides over the Gamemakers once again, face emotionless, before turning away silently slipping from the room.

[pogue]

Love's character is entirely molded around what others around him expect him to be and how they expect him to act. In a similar vein, Love's PTS is a choose-your-own style experience that allows you, the reader, to form Love's character and choices into exactly how you would expect him to act throughout it.

How do you think Love would react? What do you think he would say to his opponents? What would Love do?

---

Dear audience members... please take your seats, the show is about to begin.

Lights on, cameras rolling, raise the curtains and folks, welcome to everyone’s favorite late-night show, A Game of Love!. That’s right folks, we love to hear the cheers.

Alright alright, the fun is just beginning now, and it gives me great pleasure to announce the following...

From District Two, live and in color it’s the star of the show.. Love Bellisario!

The training station doors slide open, metallic whir a chorus to the Career’s entrance. Love’s footsteps are near silent, as if he is doing more bouncing than walking. Cloud nine swirls around him, accented by the signature shit-eating, deadly grin that is carved into his face. He waves to the skies and the gods above, fingers curling as his gaze drifts to the Gamemakers that watch him through tinted glass. Their shadowy forms blur together as his gaze narrows, smile dropping from his face as he stops in the center of the room. His hands reach down into his pocket and pull out the journal he’s used throughout his time in the training center, placing it down on the metal table to his left before turning his attention back to the Gamemakers. “Love Bellisario. Two.” He spews information that they already know, standing on a pedestal of ego and bloodlust.

The stage is set, folks! Love Bellisario is out and about and looking for trouble, and we have just the participants to bring it to him. Folks, let’s bring the music and pan the cameras and meet our contestants!

”Can we bring out the trainers I asked for?” Love says to no one but the air, counting the thumps of his heartbeats in the silence before the soft sliding sounds of metal are heard from across the room. Two forms enter and Love’s eyes flare with recognition and amusement as their faces come into view.

He knows them, they know him, and they know each other.

And the fun is just beginning.

Oh boy, as the temperatures begin to rise! It is getting hot in here. But, dear audience, we need your help to decide where to go next. Observe your surroundings, observe the situation in front of you, and reflect on what you already know about our star Love here. And then ask yourself this one simple question:

What would Love do?

[attr="class","forgetcontainer"]

    EXPLAIN THE RULES

”You two have a secret.”

Love states it plainly, his words falling swiftly from his lips and coated with the deadliest toxin he’s ever used: the truth. He’s watched the two of them for the past week, in between sword swings and launched metal and faux-kindness with his fellow tributes. It’s a budding romance between the two and the metal wedding band wrapped around her finger is its only obstacle, the striking stain on a deadly affair. Flirtatious eye contact and the occasional brushed hand against her hips.

He’d noticed it on the first day, behind a deadly smirk and in between the shadows of the target range. Love was deadly like that, and their love was just as such.

Two carries a legacy of up close and personal connections with the men in white, and he’d watched it trickle down slowly into friendships with the trainers throughout his childhood. It’d been easy, then, to spark up conversations and to nod along approvingly with every word they said, weaseling his way in between the three of them without them even knowing. Twelve pages of notes later and he’d cemented his plan, written in red against the white pages.

”What are you talking about?” She asks him, tone laced with suppressed anger. Love smirks, tilting his head and ending their little game of playing dumb.

”Can we bring out another trainer? Avery Stahl.” He calls out to the room, letting his voice echo and meld into the walls. His gaze shifts up then back down, slowly panning between the two trainers. Their faces say it all, the look of shock that washes over them both and settles into rosy cheeks and widened eyes. The man keeps that expression, brain cells click clacking together as his eyes dart to her. He hears the doors slide open as they stand there, the timer on the wall just beginning it’s descent.

The woman’s husband enters the training center an awkward mess, all narrowed eyes and furrowed brow as he joins them. His hand brushes against his wife’s back, a sign of support that is anything but reciprocated. Love’s eyes follow her muscles tense and her form shift away from the man she’s meant to love, body language writing a fucking novel and spilling it out in front of him.

”I know a secret, but I won’t tell if you stop me.” He says, taunting the three of them. Her husband face flashes with confusion, but her eyes narrow on Love after a brief moment, fire and fury brimming at the edges. Love smirks in the same way he’d done to Emerson, to Julian, to all of fucking Panem in his interview, before finishing the taunt by pressing his tongue into the inside of his cheek and moving his hand to emulate the... oral nature of her and her side piece.

[attr="class","forgetcontainer"]

    THEY ALREADY KNOW

You two have a secret.

Love thinks it to himself as he stares at the both of them, letting a brief laugh slip out from between his lips. He’s watched the two of them for the past week, in between sword swings and launched metal and faux-kindness with his fellow tributes. It’s a budding romance between the two and the metal wedding band wrapped around her finger is its only obstacle, the striking stain on a deadly affair. Flirtatious eye contact and the occasional brushed hand against her hips.

He’d noticed it on the first day, behind a deadly smirk and in between the shadows of the target range. Love was deadly like that, and their love was just as such.

Two carries a legacy of up close and personal connections with the men in white, and he’d watched it trickle down slowly into friendships with the trainers throughout his childhood. It’d been easy, then, to spark up conversations and to nod along approvingly with every word they said, weaseling his way in between the three of them without them even knowing. Twelve pages of notes later and he’d cemented his plan, written in red against the white pages.

”What is this about?” She asks him, tone innocent and naive in every word. She hopes this isn’t what she thinks it is. He thinks to himself, tilting his head and arching an eyebrow in response.

”Can we bring out another trainer? Avery Stahl.” He calls out to the room, letting his voice echo and meld into the walls. His gaze shifts up then back down, slowly panning between the two trainers. Their faces say it all, the look of shock that washes over them both and settles into rosy cheeks and widened eyes. The man keeps that expression, brain cells click clacking together as his eyes dart to her. He hears the doors slide open as they stand there, the timer on the wall just beginning it’s descent.

The woman’s husband enters the training center an awkward mess, all narrowed eyes and furrowed brow as he joins them. His hand brushes against his wife’s back, a sign of support that is anything but reciprocated. Love’s eyes follow her muscles tense and her form shift away from the man she’s meant to love, body language writing a fucking novel and spilling it out in front of him.

”Hey Love.” Avery says with a smile so innocent it was nearly heartbreaking. ”What’s this about?” And Love does nothing but frown in response, shaking his head before turning his gaze back to the side piece and the chess player. Go ahead, stop me from telling him. He says with his own facial expressions, hand moving down towards his crotch and imitating the... physical nature of the side piece and the wife.

He already knows which one will attack first before it even happens. Her. He’s watched them all, ice blue eyes like daggers in the background of every moment of the Training Center. The two men are like putty in her palms, dead water weight at her side and she is the fire in between them both. Her words burn and singe along with her personality, and that’s why Love had taken such notice of her conversations, the way she threatened to overtake and destroy like the flames he saw in her eyes.

It’s why both of the men cling to her desperately, ice cold waters desperate to feed off the leftover embers in her wake.

And, on the other hand, it’s why she could never be satisfied with just one of them at a time. Fire is meant to spread and consume, after all.

She charges forwards without hesitation, hands curling around a knife from the nearest weapons rack as Love’s actions pick at her infidelity like a half-healed scab. And both the men react in accordance, the man tied up in a fraying rope of marriage muttering ”Honey!” and the one holding scissors at the ready to snap it in two reaching out his hand in desperation to stop her. They’re two sides of the same coin, rusted and dirty and she’s tossing it haphazardly into the waters to try her fortune.

Love’s muscles tense in the face of attack. She’d find no such luck here.

Danger, danger! Looks like we’ve got Love in a pretty intense situation here folks, which means we’ll need your help. Trainer steeped in anger and fury running towards him...

What weapon does Love pick up?

[attr="class","forgetcontainer"]

    GRAB A HATCHET

Love dodges her first swing, jumping to the side and into a somersault as he moves out of the way of her path. His hands come up in a defensive position as he rises on light feet, parrying and blocking her blows and bouncing backwards from her. It’s a widening of the distance between them that she can’t seem to close, muttering obscenities and curse words at him in rage fueled breaths. It’s almost like he’s fighting Emerson with the way she lets her own anger fuel her.

Maybe that’s why he drives a fist into her nose as soon as she lets her guard down.

Blood spurts out as she stumbles backwards from the thrown punch, providing Love an opening to close the gap to the nearest weapons rack and wrap his fingers around an axe, sliding it from its holding container and listening to the metallic ring echo through the room. It’s an advantage that he didn’t offer to his opponent, twirling the hatchet in his grasp as he moves towards her and closes the gap. But Love Bellisario is anything but morally bound. It’s why he would survive above anyone else.

He plays with his food like a sadistic wolf, throwing easy swings at her and watching her dodge them. In his peripheral vision he watches the two men begin to move, smirk carving itself on his face as he throws another easy slash at her. She spins to dodge it and he seizes the opening, jamming the blunt end of the hatchet into her stomach and watching her double over. He twirls the blade in his grasp, leaving a shallow cut on her cheek before he grabs her and kicks her leg out from behind, quickly swiping a knife off the table to their right and pressing it menacingly into her neck, tossing the hatchet to his right.

”Ah ah ah..” He calls to the other two, watching them stop in their tracks for a moment.

[attr="class","forgetcontainer"]

    GRAB A SPEAR

Love waits until she’s nearly upon him before he launches himself into a backwards handspring, immediately widening the gap between the two of them as her swing misses him. He smirks as she charges forwards again, effortlessly dodging the anger-fueled punches as he arcs and bends his body, feeling the soft rush of wind as she misses. It’s only when she throws one that threatens to land against his face that he drops down into a crouch, spinning on one heel and sweeping out her legs from underneath her. She hits the ground with a grunt and a thud.

He takes the opening and somersaults towards the weapon rack to his left, grabbing a spear and feeling the metal rest familiar in his grip. His eyes drift towards the two men as they begin to move and he curses under his breath, quickly sprinting forwards and jabbing softly at his opponent with the spear. It’s an advantage that he didn’t offer to his opponent, effortlessly using the spear as an extension of his own body as he moves towards her and closes the gap. But Love Bellisario is anything but morally bound. It’s why he would survive above anyone else.

He plays with his food like a bored lion, throwing easy slices at her and watching her dodge them. In his peripheral vision he watches the two men begin to close in, smirk carving itself on his face as he throws another easy slash at her. She spins to dodge it and he seizes the opening, twisting and sending the blunt end of the spear into her face. She’s knocked off balance for the briefest of moments and he seizes it, using the momentum to slash the tip softly against her cheek and leaving a soft line of red. He grabs her and kicks her leg out from behind, quickly swiping a knife off the table to their right and pressing it menacingly into her neck before dropping the spear and kicking it out of her reach with one swipe of his foot.

”Easy there, sluggers..” He calls to the other two, watching them stop in their tracks for a moment.

[attr="class","forgetcontainer"]

   GRAB A WHIP

Love’s opening is already laid out for him in the way she charges recklessly towards him, anger fueling her every movement and leaving her wide open. He shifts into a defensive stance as she nears him, curling his fists and narrowing his eyes before he suddenly launches into a kick, spinning on his heel and sending it straight into her charging form. She immediately stumbles backwards, the cut off momentum knocking the air from her lungs and sending her away from him.

He takes the opening and immediately looks to the weapons table nearest to him, grabbing a whip and feeling the twisted leather settle softly into his grasp. His eyes drift towards the two men as they begin to move and he curses under his breath, flicking his wrist and sending the weapon cracking towards his opponent. It’s an advantage that he didn’t offer to her, the loud crack of the weapon echoing throughout the training room as he keeps his distance. But Love Bellisario is anything but morally bound. It’s why he would survive above anyone else.

He plays with his food like a child at supper, throwing easy cracks at her and watching her dodge them. In his peripheral vision he watches the two men begin to close in, smirk carving itself on his face as he hears the whip crack as she awkwardly dodges them. She attempts to roll to dodge him and he spots the flaw in her movements, flicking his wrist and watching the momentum of the whip send it flying out towards her. It wraps around her leg with a simple movement and he yanks with all of his force, interrupting her roll and causing her to body slam down into the metallic floors. He yanks again and pulls her towards him, the whip unwrapping around her foot as he tosses it to the side. He grabs her and spins her around to face the other two men, swiping a knife from the table and moving it down to press into her neck. It glides against her cheek as he does so, leaving a soft line of red on her cheek before he presses it threateningly against her neck.

”Slow your roll there..” He calls to the other two, watching them stop in their tracks for a moment.

Love’s hand arcs around her face, the metal laced in between his fingertips pressed softly into the flesh of her neck. Jugular, he thinks amusedly to himself, memories of Emerson’s muscular knowledge flitting through his mind. The blood from the cut on her face drips slowly down the arc of her cheekbones and settles into the space where Love’s forearm is pressed to it, staining his skin red in remembrance of the fury filled takedown he’d managed to accomplish.

Her breaths are shaking, ragged and tumbling out of her lungs like the lies she’s so easily spilled under the guise of a diamond wedding band. He hears the anger in them, tearing apart the air in front of them as Love’s eyes stare daggers into both of the trainers in front of him, lungs holding steady while he licks his lips. Their gaze drifts from the knife to the boy in front of them, up and down like a fucking carousel because the way the metal is pressed into her throat is enough to draw a trickle of blood that runs down her neck.

They saw his actions and they saw her anger and they saw her fury. And he’s watching the facade and the veil dissipate in place of another, staring back at both of their reflections in the shattered veins of a broken mirror. When Love’s lips finally part and break the silence his eyes are cold, laced with ice and the knowledge that he’s gathered.

What a frisky situation! Well, you know what they say folks, a bird in the hand is worth two idiot men in the bush. Or, something like that. And, as always, you know what we need you to do.

Which trainer does Love taunt?

[attr="class","forgetcontainer"]

    THE HUSBAND

”Sorry what’s in your pants couldn’t keep it together.” Love’s eyes narrow in on the husband, taunting smirk contrasting against the cold look in his eyes. It’s dangling bait in front of a starving wolf and he sees the mans cheeks run red with embarrassment, fingers curling into a fist as Love readies himself. The husband’s gaze drifts to the man that sits so close to him, his friend and his coworker and the outline of then cracks in his own marriage. His rage tangible in the air between them as it dawns on him exactly what’s been going on.

Love’s fist wraps into the woman’s training uniform as he watches the two men lock gazes, fingers clasping around the hilt of his knife before he suddenly slams her head into the side of the table. Her skull knocks against it in a loud thud, echoing through the room as the two men’s eyes suddenly lock onto him. His grip loosens and she slinks to the ground beneath him as he steps back, clasping the knife

Two on one. When he blinks he envisions Julian and Emerson swarming him in the blind rage of their failed legacy.

He tucks the knife into the pocket of his pants, jogging backwards for a few steps as he makes sure they’re both chasing after him before he turns and vaults over the nearest weapons table, landing in a somersault and quickly twisting his form to grasp the opposite edge and pull, flipping the small table onto its side before he presses his foot against it and kicks, sending the metal flying into the two of them. The husband dodges out of the way, blocking the other mans line of sight for just enough time for the metal to slam into his form and send him awkwardly stumbling over himself. Love takes the momentary obstruction as an area of opportunity, making his way over towards the training area modeled after Four.

Ropes and nets and everything in between and Love’s fingertips wrap around the nearest netting, his gaze looking towards the husband as he regains his footing after dodging the table. Love doesn’t wast any time, sprinting forward and launching the netting onto the trainer. It wraps and contorts around his form and Love’s cements it with a single kick to the groin as he runs by, leaving the husband collapsed to the ground in pain and embarrassment. He won’t need them anyways. Love thinks, the man’s failing marriage left in his wake as he sprints by.

He reaches the other trainer in a few leaps and bounds, the trainer holding up a knife he’d grasped from the tipped over weapons table in defense as Love descends upon him. It’s aggressive and breathless and constant pressure, Love taking furious swipes at the trainer and forcing him into a defensive position as they fight. The man’s knife scrapes against his forearm several times in the span of it, leaving little kisses of red and burgundy as blood drips from the shallow cuts. Love finally takes his opening, stabbing and forcing the man into an open position before his left hand drives itself into the trainer’s stomach, doubling him over. Love drives the point home by sending his knee into the man’s stomach. He goes from threat to rag doll in the pain and Love takes full advantage, twisting the man’s form before driving the knife into his thigh.

He screams with pain as Love releases his grip on the knife, leaving it sitting in the trainer’s thigh before he curls his fingers into a fist and drives and uppercut into his jaw. It’s a flurry of punches as Love keeps him within arms reach with a fist curled into his shirt, blood splattering out onto his uniform as Love breaks his nose. By the time he tackles the man to the ground he’s unconscious already, the action cemented only by Love continuing to drive his fist into his jaw before he lets up.

He pulls the knife from the man’s thigh, blood still dripping from the blade.

[attr="class","forgetcontainer"]

    THE SIDE PIECE

”Looks like .you weren’t good enough in the sheets to ditch the hubby for” Love’s eyes narrow in on the side piece, taunting smirk contrasting against the cold look in his eyes. It’s dangling bait in front of a starving wolf and he sees the mans cheeks run red with embarrassment, fingers curling into a fist as Love readies himself. The husband’s gaze drifts to the man that sits so close to him, his friend and his coworker and the outline of then cracks in his own marriage. His rage tangible in the air between them as it dawns on him exactly what’s been going on.

Love’s fist wraps into the woman’s training uniform as he watches the two men lock gazes, fingers clasping around the hilt of his knife before he suddenly slams her head into the side of the table. Her skull knocks against it in a loud thud, echoing through the room as the two men’s eyes suddenly lock onto him. His grip loosens and she slinks to the ground beneath him as he steps back, clasping the knife

Two on one. When he blinks he envisions Julian and Emerson swarming him in the blind rage of their failed legacy.

He tucks the knife into the pocket of his pants, jogging backwards for a few steps as he makes sure they’re both chasing after him before he turns and vaults over the nearest weapons table, landing in a somersault and quickly twisting his form to grasp the opposite edge and pull, flipping the small table onto its side before he presses his foot against it and kicks, sending the metal flying into the two of them. The husband dodges out of the way, blocking the other mans line of sight for just enough time for the metal to slam into his form and send him awkwardly stumbling over himself. Love takes the momentary obstruction as an area of opportunity, making his way over towards the training area modeled after Four.

Ropes and nets and everything in between and Love’s fingertips wrap around the nearest netting, his gaze looking towards the husband as he regains his footing after dodging the table. Love doesn’t wast any time, sprinting forward and launching the netting onto the trainer. It wraps and contorts around his form and Love’s cements it with a single kick to the groin as he runs by, leaving the husband collapsed to the ground in pain and embarrassment. He won’t need them anyways. Love thinks, the man’s failing marriage left in his wake as he sprints by.

He reaches the other trainer in a few leaps and bounds, the trainer holding up a knife he’d grasped from the tipped over weapons table in defense as Love descends upon him. It’s aggressive and breathless and constant pressure, Love taking furious swipes at the trainer and forcing him into a defensive position as they fight. The man’s knife scrapes against his forearm several times in the span of it, leaving little kisses of red and burgundy as blood drips from the shallow cuts. Love finally takes his opening, stabbing and forcing the man into an open position before his left hand drives itself into the trainer’s stomach, doubling him over. Love drives the point home by sending his knee into the man’s stomach. He goes from threat to rag doll in the pain and Love takes full advantage, twisting the man’s form before driving the knife into his thigh.

He screams with pain as Love releases his grip on the knife, leaving it sitting in the trainer’s thigh before he curls his fingers into a fist and drives and uppercut into his jaw. It’s a flurry of punches as Love keeps him within arms reach with a fist curled into his shirt, blood splattering out onto his uniform as Love breaks his nose. By the time he tackles the man to the ground he’s unconscious already, the action cemented only by Love continuing to drive his fist into his jaw before he lets up.

He pulls the knife from the man’s thigh, blood still dripping from the blade.

There’s blood splattered across Love’s uniform when he finally turns back towards the final trainer, gaze drifting from the unconscious woman down to the affair that sits cold in the sins of his own red hot affair. They aren’t dead, far from it, because after all he was a showman above anything else and, from what he’d heard from the little birdies there’d already been far too many corpses leftover from training sessions in past years for it to be anything surprising or new.

His breaths are heavier now, muscles tensing and heart beating rapidly in his chest at the physical exertion he’d forced himself into. But though he’s worse for wear he’s still wearing it well, smirk dancing across his face as the scorned husband finally frees himself from the netting Love had dropped onto him. ”I can see why she wasn’t satisfied.” Love calls to him, raising his left hand to show the metal claddagh ring that sits on his finger. He taps metal to metal, the blade of his knife calling out before he finally stops, a metallic heartbeat signaling their decimated marriage. ”We can’t all be connoisseurs in the sack.” He finishes and it’s the salt on an open wound, all mangled teeth and snarling mouth and bared fangs as Love’s words etch themselves into the man’s mind.

It’s psychological just as much as it is physical. In Love’s life he’s discovered that one can hurt just as much as the other if wielded correctly.

Love’s feet bounce and weave as the man begins to charge, the hollow sounds of the large training pool behind him finally coming in to earshot as he settles in his positioning, feet planted firmly as he takes up a defensive stance and raises his knife in a mocking manner.

Like a charging bull! It’s beginning to turn into a final stand for our dear Love, folks. So, as always, it’s time to cross your t’s and dot your i’s and make the choice...

How does Love react?

[attr="class","forgetcontainer"]

    DODGE

Wait for it.

Wait for it.

Wait for it.

He repeats the phrase to himself as he watches the last trainer charge forward, anger and fury and everything in between drudging along behind him as Love recounts his own words and actions that led him here. Love tenses his muscles, lightening his stance as he counts the distances between them with an intense stare.

He can feel the heat of the man’s rage against his face when he finally crouches and rolls in one quick motion, clearing out of the man’s path at the last moment.

He laces the breath of metal in his hands, clutching it with tense fingers as he swings outwards from his crouched position. He feels it connect with the flesh of the man’s heel, slicing through his achilles’ tendon and sending a splatter of blood out behind him in his wake. The man gasps in pain, form faltering at the sudden loss of balance and he crumbles down towards the floor. Momentum holds him tight, though, dragging his charging form forwards into the waters of the pool.

Love hears the crash of the water as he quickly gets to his feet, twirling the knife in his grasp before he tosses it to the side.

The last thing he hears is metal meeting metal as he dives gracefully into the water after the man, colliding with his thrashing form.

[attr="class","forgetcontainer"]

    INJURE

Wait for it.

Wait for it.

Wait for it.

Love wraps the knife in his hand, adjusting his grasp out of habit if only to make sure the lifeline still rests within his fingers. He’s counting the distance between him and a charging bull, intense stare and thrashing heartbeat counting down the moments before he makes his move. And he sees it in the man’s eyes, the way he’s anticipating metal to be launched at him at any moment.

They are two snakes getting ready to strike, and they both know it.

Now. Love finally says to himself, muscles in his arm firing as he flicks his wrist. The man responds in turn, twirling his momentum and using it to shift left, right out of the line of Love Bellisario’s knife.

That is, if there had been any knife thrown in the first place.

There’s a lightning flash of a smirk as Love clasps the knife still, a fake flick of the wrist throwing the trainer off-guard as he watches the man desperately try and shift his weight back in order to dodge again. Love doesn’t give him the chance, flicking the metal knife out and directly into the man’s thigh. Red spurts out from the wound as the man gasps in pain and crumbles forwards, momentum carrying him forward in its claws. Love listens for a moment, the sound of the man’s sliding form scraping against the metallic floors. The trainer tries desperately to get up as soon as his form comes to a sudden halt, but Love never gives him the chance.

He sprints forwards with the hollow roar of a lion more real than any legacy from One, colliding with the man and tackling him straight into a territory more familiar than anything he has known: the waters.

Their forms tumble into the pool, the ice of the water swallowing them whole as they crash into and beneath the surface. The world goes from painstakingly loud to muffled under the hands of his captor, hearing the sounds of the water flooding past his ears as Love dives forward and grasps the final trainer left standing in his way underneath the water. His heartbeat flutters, thump thump thump ringing hollow in his ears as he breathes out softly, feeling the bubbles bounce and scatter against his face as instincts take over.

And with instinct comes memories.

When he closes his eyes they flood and swarm him in those brief moments, every training session he’d spent underneath the water in the name of his own survivability. Fighting lungs and desperate limbs and widened eyes looking through the glass at his Father’s form, watching his lips part and sink in muffled abandon and knowing exactly what he was saying. Because he’d said it so many times before, had carved it into the mold of his son and watched it set in the sun of time, even as diamond replaced clay and a weak heart became strong under the name Bellisario.

”Fight through it, Love.

Outlast your weakness. Overpower your doubts.”

Whew! It’s getting more tense than a Love and Emerson fan-fiction in this training session, everyone. And we’ve got Love all under the water and taking the stage for his final act. Outstanding! Absolutely outstanding.

You’ve gotten him this far, folks! Take it home.

What does Love do?

[attr="class","forgetcontainer"]

    OUTLAST

The muscles in Love’s legs tense and erupt as he kicks hard, his fists knotted into the trainer’s uniform as he tighten’s his grasp, threading the man’s uniform into his balled fist.

He was in Love’s territory now, one built on clawing lungs and desperate form and every grueling training session he’d ever been put through in his childhood.

His instincts rush in almost as soon as they reach the near bottom of the pool, breathing calming and mind focusing as he forcefully holds the man down beneath him. There’s fear in his eyes and clawing hands flailing wildly in his own need for survival. It stands in stark contrast to Love’s own apathy laced expression, final breath held in his lungs as he watches the sands flow out from the hourglass he holds.

It’s a diamond versus flimsy glass. He was built to withstand, and what is in his grasp was built to break.

It’s only when the man’s form finally goes limp in his grasp that he twists his body until his feet are touching the bottom of the pool, bending his legs before pushing off with all of the power left in his legs. They rocket up through the waters, water clinging desperately to their forms before they crash through the surface in a heap of gasping breaths and unconscious form.

He pulls them quickly towards the edge, medics waiting in desperation to revitalize the man. There’s mercy in his fingertips as he hands him off like the dead weight he is, the unconscious man quickly being carried away on foot and stretcher as he kicks softly with his feet, treading water as his fingertips wrap around the edge of the pool.

[attr="class","forgetcontainer"]

    OVERPOWER

The man fights in his grasp as they enter the water, slamming balled fists desperately out towards him. Love holds him at an arms length, the man’s strikes hollow and soft against his chest as the water pushes against him like an obstacle. His eyes drift down towards the bottom of the pool, murky and distant and just as deadly as it had always been back in his training sessions.

He could drown him down there, hold him until he turns limp and still have enough air left in his lungs for a victory speech afterwards.

But he locks eyes with the man in front of him, all broken marriage and filled with rage and opts for the second approach that flits through his mind. His legs kick once, a powerful force that sends them up and out of the surface of the water. The sounds fill his ears for a brief moment, quickly cut through the by gasp for air that his opponent longs for as he breaks the surface as well.

Love doesn’t give his lungs the benefit of the air that they crave.

His fist knots itself into the man’s shirt, his own training giving him the high ground as he quickly palms his other hand on the top of the man’s head. And it’s halfway through his gasp that Love sends his head back down beneath the surface, hearing only the sounds of the bubbles erupting from his throat as he holds him down underneath the water.

Once, twice, three times. It’s a repeating symphony of breaking lungs before Love finally forces the man’s head into the edge of the pool. It’s hollow at first, the way his skin and skull bounces against the steel, but as Love repeats the motion he gradually sees the red of blood seep out from the man’s face, hears the crunch of his nose shatter against the final hit and feels his unconscious form go heavy and limp in his grasp.

Medics rush in almost as soon as he is done, snatching the trainer from his grasp and carrying him away to the medical ward. Love turns his body and rests his arms against the edge of the pool, heavy breaths escaping from his lungs as his last opponent is charted away.

Love’s eyes drift up in between heaving breaths and cascading heartbeats, finding the red glow of the large timer that hangs from the wall. Three minutes and fifteen seconds left, he thinks to himself. Not bad.

He’d be remiss to say that he wasn’t hurting, all strained muscles and hurting chest at the physical exertion. And there’s bumps and bruises that scatter themselves across the landscape of his body, the occasional landed punch or graze of a weapon that had left its mark. He pulls himself to the edge of the pool, casting a glance over at the shadowy forms of the Gamemakers one final time.

He’d given them what they’d asked for, a show from a showstopper.

Bravo! Bravo! Throw your roses and watch the curtains fall, everyone. I swear! There are tears in my eyes. What a final act, and we couldn’t have done it without you!

Please welcome me in bringing out or host one more time, and as always we’ll leave it up to you in how he shows himself. So, dear audience, as the sun sets on our airtime...

What is Love’s final act?

[attr="class","forgetcontainer"]

    TAKE A BOW

Love breaks his own post-training tradition in the face of a new beginning, muscles in his arm straining in protest as he pulls himself gracefully up from the edge of the pool. The water weight clings to him softly as he stands for a moment, mixing and twirling below him with the little bits of blood that seep from the shallow cuts on his skin. The footsteps are red as he walks back to the center of the room, contrasting against the pearly whites on display in the trademark smile that’s etched once more onto his face.

His hand wraps around the journal he’d placed onto the table in the very beginning of all of this, flipping open the pages until he finally gets to the twelve pages he’d written on the three trainers that had fallen under his weight. Diagrams and notes and circles and squares and every little itty bitty finding he’d snatched from the shadows are written in red ink, meeting his gaze as he flips through each page.

Then, in one fluid motion he rips the chapter free from the book, the sound of tearing paper echoing through the training center.

They crinkle in his grasp, water of his skin seeping into the pages and mixing with the notes he’d carved into them, turning red lines into nothing but bloodstains. Fitting. he thinks to himself. Thirty seconds left and Love tosses the paper into the air above him, hearing the swoosh of the running current under their wings as they bounce and scatter amongst each other.

He bows like the gentleman he is, all seeped in blood and Bellisario bravado.

”Love Bellisario. Two.” He repeats as the timer begins to blare. Keep them. He thinks to the Gamemakers as his eyes dart between the falling papers.

[attr="class","forgetcontainer"]

    TAKE A SWIM

Love settles back into his own post-training tradition, breaking from the path of a new beginning as he pushes out from the edge of the pool and back into the waters. The surface swallows and breaks under his weight in one quick rush, a single woosh meeting his ears before he finally settles into floating on his back. Red seeps from shallow wounds that litter his form, leftover remnants of red whispering into the waters as his gaze shifts upwards to the ceiling. He smiles, all pearly whites before he breaks out into a small laugh, triumphant as ever. He finally pulls himself from the pool when the robotic voice announces one minute remaining, watery footsteps left in his wake as he makes his way towards the center, back turned to the Gamemakers.

His hand wraps around the journal he’d placed onto the table in the very beginning of all of this, flipping open the pages until he finally gets to the twelve pages he’d written on the three trainers that had fallen under his weight. Diagrams and notes and circles and squares and every little itty bitty finding he’d snatched from the shadows are written in red ink, meeting his gaze as he flips through each page.

Then, in one fluid motion he rips the chapter free from the book, the sound of tearing paper echoing through the training center.

They crinkle in his grasp, water of his skin seeping into the pages and mixing with the notes he’d carved into them, turning red lines into nothing but bloodstains. Fitting. he thinks to himself. Thirty seconds left and Love begins his path towards the door, leaving a trail of his own psychological notes behind him. ”Keep em.” He calls out to the Gamemakers as he exits.

[newclass=".forgetcontainer"]width:400px; height: 50px; overflow: hidden;, opacity:1.0; -webkit-transition-duration:1s; transition-duration:1s; -moz-transition-duration:1s;[/newclass]
[newclass=".forgetcontainer:hover"]height:500px; overflow:scroll; -webkit-transition-duration:1s; transition-duration:1s; -moz-transition-duration:1s; [/newclass][newclass=.scroll ::-webkit-scrollbar]width:0px;[/newclass]

[alex 🐺]

Emmett was killed by Kenji Nakamura, falling to the ground as Kenji lunged, his blade lodging itself in his eye. Emerson had watched it all in startling color, as the light glinted off of Kenji’s sword and the smile danced on Emmett’s lips as he fell.

Silk was killed by Lenox Lachance, a spear gash on her arm that proved too much for her to bear as she stood, littered with wounds and still every bit the fucking queen she was, never bowing down to less worthy opponents.

Emie hadn’t watched Silk die live—she had been inconspicuously out of the house with her head between some girl's legs, feeling the thrill of power and the rush of pleasure as her sister’s life flamed out.

As she stumbled out of the girl’s room, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and stopped dead in her tracks because Silk’s death was playing in slow fucking motion all across the Town Square. Tatton had found her that night in the corner of her closet, her hands clenched in her hair, a panic attack drowning out the sound all around her. It was the last night that she had slept in her house before the Reaping.

She’d always wondered what they’d done for their private training sessions to earn Emmett a ten and Silk an eleven. Knowing Emmett, he had probably taken a little from column a and a little from column b. He was always more of a chameleon than a lion, at any rate. And knowing Silk, well she had probably argued and debated her way to an eleven with some sort of lecture about how luscious her hair was or some other bullshit.

Emerson was up with the sun on the morning of the private training session, stretching her back and then spending half an hour massaging her sore muscles and waking up with some relaxing yoga. After a quick breakfast, she tracked down one of the trainers who told her that what she was asking for—as crazy and misguided and idiotic as her plan was— it simply wouldn’t work.

Something about liabilities and the like, but after batting her eyelashes and promising him a happy ending if she came out of the training session alive and unharmed, he finally relented. Sometimes it paid to use your assets, as Loathe had kindly reminded her this morning, walking around the District One apartments like he owned the fucking place, even though his proper room was a floor above them. What Emie wouldn’t give for twenty feet of space from him before he was glued to her side like a fucking parasite the rest of the games.

He’s glaring at her even now and she fights the urge to punch him in the face, but before she can do anything more than flip him off without Jules seeing, it’s her turn. Fuck.

She takes long graceful steps into the room, calm and assured, her chest and head held high because at the end of the day, at the end of her life (if it came to that and she hoped against all hope that it wouldn’t), she was a Le Roux through and through.

"Emerson Le Roux, District One,"she tells the assembled crowd, twenty feet above her, her voice carrying melodically, not quite a roar, but more of a purr.

Le Roux.

Mom had always told them that they were lions, bred into the family but made by hard work. Forged into a Le Roux like iron and steel were forged into weapons, burnished in gold, and anointed as royalty. Words whispered hurriedly to Areto linger in her mind. She wonders for a moment what the Amazon had up her sleeve for her private training session. She made it a point to ask her, after this was all over. And maybe over a meal. Or something stupidly romantic like a picnic on the roof of the Training Center.

She walks to the weapons rack, and picks out a crossbow loaded with one arrow, a spear, a machete, two katanas that she straps over each shoulder. The spear, and machete are placed around the room, twenty feet away from each other. She drops the crossbow in the far corner. She needed to use the entire room so she had asked for it to be cleared of everything save a climbing wall on one side that ended about ten feet up. A vantage point she may need later if things got tense. She was hoping she wouldn’t have to use it.

Emie finally straps a small hunting knife to her calf, kneeling before the Gamemakers, supplicant as if bowing to them. She hangs her head for a moment as if in prayer, her blonde tresses obscuring her face before she runs her hands through her hair, grabbing at her bangs and pulling it to the back of her head, tying her hair back in a half-up, half-down hairstyle, a braid running down the left side of her face. The necklace that Mom had given her glitters on her chest, the image of a lion.

She knew it would glow red in the lights before this day was done.

She hears the roar before she sees them and knows that the trainer must have kept his word. Doors underneath the Gamemakers rise, timed to let three lions and then two more after seven minutes.

The lions stalk towards Emerson, slowly, with all of the grace of the king of beasts. She wasn’t sure if they were real lions or mutts, but the way they were looking at her spoke of an evolution that prioritized deadliness, grace, speed, and beauty. It’s no wonder that a lion was her family crest. And, well she had asked for five because their pride had been whittled down after Emmett’s death, after Silk’s death.

Her name was Emerson Le Roux. Le Roux. A lionhearted girl and a lion through and through. And the only way to survive these games, to shed the tarnished legacy that she carried with every beat of her heart, every step that she took in these halls, in this room, in this building, in the entire Capitol, was to destroy the power of the symbol of her family.

She had asked for five because that was all she had left—Mom, Harper, Tatton, Aurora, and Cathy.

She was willing to kill for her family and now she had to be willing to kill her family. Because Julian might one day stand in her way of going home.

No time like now to get a taste for it.

She feels her heartbeat calm, the nirvana that always came upon her when she was training, right before a fight, because this is what she had been made for.

Forged in fire and glittering in gold her entire life, she was Emerson Le Roux.

Emie puts her weight on her back foot, light steps, just the way she had been taught. Holy hell, she thinks, watching the maws of the lions open and close menacingly. She had thought earlier that if Love wanted to get to know the Le Rouxs, see how a lion lived, he needed to stick his head inside the mouth of a lion.

Well, Emerson was in the lion’s den and if these were the smaller of the five, Emie was in over her head. But she’s a Career, dammit. She’s death walking, dripping in gold.

All three lions dash forward together, paws echoing off of the rubber mats like cannon fire—hungry, angry, scared— just like Tat, Rora, and Cathy. Emie tugs one katana free, stepping forward. Lions can run at a top speed of fifty miles per hour, but there’s not enough room in the Training Center for them to pick up that much speed. That doesn’t mean that they don’t come at Emie with the force of three freight trains, all two hundred and fifty pounds times three of them barreling forward.

The smallest one—Cathy, Emie thinks, always so eager—stops short and roars loudly in her face. Emerson swings wildly, two hands on the tsuka, catching the lion through the shoulder. It falters for a moment, dragging its front paw with it as the second of the three lions collides into her, knocking her off of her feet.

She spins and falls to the ground, but she’s up in the next second, shaking her hair out of her face and dropping the katana, the second one safely on her back. She’s landed near the spear and readies her stance as the other two come at her.

Silk died by a spear and Emerson had always felt it was a fitting weapon to drop the eldest Le Roux girl. She remembers what Silk had taught her years ago—elbow locked tight, Emie, tight, then distribute your weight and let it fly. She aims for the largest of the three—Tatton—and lets the spear fly. It catches the lion in the neck and it falls to the ground with a roar, its body landing with a dull thud. But now Emerson’s feeling desperate and she’s running out of fucking time.

She takes off towards the climbing wall, her hands calloused from years and years of training giving her the necessary grip strength to scale the wall, following the route that she had memorized the days previous. Climbing had always been like a puzzle to solve, figuring out the best way to get to the top, and she remembers just where to place her feet and hands for speed. She lunges for the final hold, moving her feet from right to left to lift her body up on top of the wall as the two lions circle down below.

They jump and paw at the wall and Emerson launches herself off the wall, using her bent legs to propel her past the lions, dropping to the ground behind them with a roll as she unsheathes the second katana. The lions turn but she’s too quick and she feels muscles tear under her blade as she slices along the side of the only lion that she hasn’t touched yet—Aurora, a snarl on her lips, so like her little sister—watching it fall to the mat, paws outstretched and mouth open. The smallest lion is still standing, pacing, though it's losing a lot of blood and Emie steps forward, stabbing again at the part of the shoulder she had hit earlier, blood splattering her face and chest. She grips harder on the katana, pulling down with her blade as hard as she can. The lion takes a few steps forward and collapses at Emie’s feet.

Three down, two to go, and the timer taunts her as it flashes red in the corner of the room. Emie doesn’t dare glance up at the Gamemakers and the mess she was making of their Training Center.

Just as she watches the third lion breathe its last breath, the final two doors rise up in unison and two larger lions growl and jump forward. They sniff at the bodies of their fallen pride.

Were they a family, like the Le Rouxs? Had Emerson ripped them apart the way that hers had been so callously torn asunder? Emie can't dwell on it, not when she has two lions literally breathing down her neck.

She sprints over to the crossbow and raises it as quickly as she can. Archery was never her strong suit but lions had a large fucking central mass, so how hard could it be? She fires and the arrow embeds itself in the first lion’s eye. Mom Emerson thinks with a laugh on her lips. She was sure that if Mom could see this, her lip would be curling and she would be cursing Emerson, calling her a wretched girl, ungrateful for everything that her life had given her. But she wasn't ungrateful, no, Mom had gifted her with everything she needed to fight, to win. To survive.

Lions tire slower than humans, that’s for damn sure. And by the time the fifth lion's approaching Emerson, the weapons that she had painstakingly chosen lay discarded all around her and her lungs are begging for air that wasn’t as stale as that of the Training Center. She feels sweat on her forehead, her chest, at her lower back and the training top she wears clings to her. She nearly slips from the blood that's splattered all around.

All she has left in her arsenal is the machete that lay discarded to her right, an afterthought. But the last lion, the largest of the five—Harper, she thinks bitterly— steps towards her without breaking eye contact, his roar defining and his mane shining in the fluorescent lights. Harper was always more bravado than brawn and this lion seemed to have that in spades as he paces back and forth in front of Emie as if to say, “Is it my turn yet?”

She’s running out of time, she knows this because she seconds are ticking down and she still has to kill this fucking thing and her legs are screaming at her as sweat trails down her face.

She turns to lunge toward the machete and the lion's already upon her, his paws lashing out and swiping at her leg. She falls to the floor, but she’s dived just far enough, and her palm grips the handle of the machete. A few inches shorter and she knows she would’ve been dragged backward.

Emerson turns over onto her stomach, switching the machete to her left hand and grabbing at the knife at her calf with her right. Thank Ripred she’d thought to put it down there. And this feels better now, more natural. She’d always favored twin blades, after all. And she had no problem being on her back.

She holds her right hand lower, bringing the machete up just as the lion jumps onto her, impaling himself in the chest and the stomach onto her steel. A rush of air escapes his mouth and he collapses onto her, all six hundred pounds of him. But the point of her machete is deep in the lion’s chest, the point of the knife is in his gut and she feels him breathe his last aching breath, his spit and saliva dropping onto her face.

Mustering every bit of strength she has left, knowing that she only has seconds to spare, Emerson grits her teeth and pushes as hard as she can, rolling the carcass off of her before she stands. Her legs nearly give out, but save for the gash on her left calf, she’s unscathed. She’s covered in blood—the lion’s and her own and some other feline bodily floods, but she drops the machete and the knife to the ground before she strides out of the training room without another word or another glance at the Gamemakers, a graveyard of gold and red all around her.

She wasn’t a lion. Not anymore.

She was whatever the hell she needed to be to survive.

Splattered in blood and pearly white teeth gleaming like razors.

[Tom]

"We're all moving forward blindly, Bellamy."

Emptiness is a void he didn't know how to escape all those years ago. Blind steps into the madness of his own familial journey; blood dripping wounds haunting with the smell of gunpowder and desperation. All these years and he still can taste the disappointment on his lips, the mental toll of being alone in a terrifying world, and knowing the first person to reach out had been a man who had the kindest of eyes and the warmest of hugs. Days where he can still remember those years when he could barely breathe in the air around him. Fear echoed through his body until he got so good at staying away and reading a room to every absolute minimal detail.

"It's about how you take those steps forward. Are you gonna be afraid or are you gonna be brave?"

A man who smiled down at him; hand extended out like a rope to pull him from the chasm underneath his feet. Lost in his own head, he's remembering the way he had taken his steps blindly. One by one, his steps have taken him to a place where fear and bravery are not allowed. Sitting on a chair in the room where kids become killers and killers become victors. It's a sickening feeling in his stomach as he stares at the pristine white walls and the marble floor of the hallway. Blind steps into a place where capitolites scrutinize him; his eye for detail meaning nothing more than an observant tribute.

Bellamy Scott wasn't here for the games.

He's come to the capitol for answers and he was going to find them.

A crown wouldn't give him what he wanted.

Heavy is the head they fall on.

"Bellamy Scott!"

A deep breath and the air fills his lungs; gunpowder and smoking guns waiting to be shot through him. Entering the room is a crescendo of the bitter smell of gunpowder; eyes staring down at him with expectations he wouldn't live up to. Bellamy's never been one to stand out in the limelight. Too smart to put himself in the position of scrutinizing eyes, but he's done it for only one reason. Answers to a fifteen year old murder in Three. A murder of a district citizen who created weapons and mechanisms for the capitol's death games. His own father's genius could end up being what kills him in the end.

His eyes follow the gamemakers for a moment before he gives a small bow in acknowledgement. Pulling out what's hidden in his pockets, he shows the fabric, blackened like the burnt bread they'd live with on tough nights in the orphanage. Easy enough to wrap twice to make the fabric pitch black; a void of nothingness. A smile upon his lips as he pulls the fabric over his eyes. A knot tied by his own hands to keep the fabric to his vision. Reaching back to his pockets, he pulls out earplugs, bright orange and a soft foam. People would expect him to go vicious and violent like other tributes. Traps that'd kill with electricity or a trick to blow up the arena with a bomb, but that wasn't him.

Bellamy Scott wasn't a fighter.

All he had to his name was his brilliant eyes that glitter like the moon.

"Trainers. Any of you around, pick up any weapon and slaughter a handful of dummies."

What feels like minutes pass with an emptiness, he's alone in the mind. Lost in the concentration of knowing he's not what the capitol wants. Larceny Theft and Auto Theft had made Three known for being troublemakers. A district full of surprises and tricks, but Bellamy Scott wasn't a Theft. He wasn't a Spark. He wasn't like any of them. Violence wasn't in his blood. Been through enough fights for survival to know what it's like to be too weak to throw a punch, but he takes a heavy breath before a hand taps his shoulder. Waiting thirty seconds, he removes the ear plugs and blindfold staring at the carnage before him.

"I won't stand here and lie to you. I'm not much of a fighter. My chances of winning are like a 0.075 percent chance."

His fingers desperately want to grip the notepad in his back pocket while he assesses the carnage of blood, dummies, and broken bones.

"But I refuse to not try despite such low odds."

A smile on his face as he stays still.

"I have more to offer than you think. I'll show you today."

A step forward into the scene he was blind for, he can see blood splattering that's overlapped in multiple arcs. Wounds deep enough to kill from the clear strike to the chest and arm. The direction of the wound showed which hand the trainer had likely used, unless it was a trick, but he highly doubted a strike to the right side would be from a left handed individual, except if it was a complete miss, which he hoped a trained individual didn't do. "Two strikes. Most likely a blade, deep cuts to the chest and right arm." Poking a finger to the wound in the chest and arm; there's a silence over him as he looks down at the splattering on the floor. Arcs in two directions, but one is much farther than the other. A smile on his lips as he continues. "The chest was the first strike based on the blood patterns on the floor, a killing blow for sure, but the arm was done second based on the smaller amount of blood that dripped to the floor. Both are killing blows, due to the artery cut here." His finger points to his own arm to show where. "And the chest would have gone deep enough to cut past the ribs and into the heart." Pointing to the would, he lets it go before taking another glance.

"If I had to guess the weapon, it was probably an axe from that right handed strength trainer over there."

His eyes following the trainer for a moment staring at the trainer to read the expression on his face. A smile is all he catches before he continues on the assessment of the other carnages around him. "Strength Trainer clearly went diagonal to that dummy over there. Similar wounds, but those ones seem to have much more force behind them. As if the guy was having fun. A shoulder wound, while painful, that one could be fixed by some first aid. The neck one would have killed." Not walking over to the dummy or direction the trainer had gone, he assesses the one next to the first dummy.

Head nearly falling off, left arm severed, and a large pool of blood beneath it. The dummy clearly had been hit with a severing weapon of sorts, most likely a large blade. A sword seemed like the most likely statement. Clear and clean precise cuts giving more evidence to his own thoughts than a glaive. "Clearly the dummy would be dead. Nearly missing a head would have been a killing blow. The severed arm at shoulder would have also killed, just much slower and painful than the head. Based on the blood, this dummy lost around a pint. Dizziness and dehydration would have set in eventually if left alone." His eyes follow the path to the next dummy, which continues the severing, this time a leg and an arm. "Definitely a sword, the severs are too precise and that's a testament to the skill of this trainer. My guess is the blades trainer, who I know is left handed from watching them earlier. A trail of limbs is most likely from them, except the headless one over there." The headless dummy was clearly from the strength trainer.

"Our strength trainer did that one from the ripping of the back half. Axes are less precise, but carry a lot more strength behind them."

The last set of dummies that were of a different disheveled mess of blood and bones was all that's left. Another stronger trainer had been through this area. A chest ruptured and a body on the ground as he stares at it. "Probably the easiest of the trainers who participated, this weapon is a blunt, but I don't think it was a regular blunt. Something like a spiked blunt weapon. The chest is ruptured and there's no coming back from that. Instant death upon impact here. The blood pooling around the body is coming from the nostrils and mouth, which means internal bleeding." His hand moves around the edge of the dummy, staring at smaller cuts. Another trainer had helped clearly from the smaller scrapes. Except, it hits him almost instantly. "Based on the scrappage on the dummy's back, it was slid across the floor. Normally, I'd be able to tell better on a actual dead body, since we bruise and these dummies don't."

His eyes scan the trainers in the room until he reaches the woman who ran the trapping station. "I'm pretty sure it's the trapping stations trainer; her hands are calloused by using a heavy weapon, plus these strikes' owner preferred their right side." His eyes follow the path of dummies, noticing other broken bones and ruptured bodies. The last thing to tell was where they each had left the battle. Blood soaked floors and his eyes follow once more, not looking to the trainers. "Based on all the carnage, Strength Trainer exited the battle at the back, having run through in a swift strike. Clearly from the wounds and pathing, he had the least amount of killing blows, which is a method to go about fighting. The Blades Trainer went through the group at ease, definitely a little less predictable, but a fatal flaw of stepping in the bloody pools another trainer left showed you stepped out to the left side from me. The Trapping Trainer definitely went back the way she came as the first dummy was tossed, after the first strike." His eyes follow the other trainers as he waits for a nod from all three.

A silence fills him as he thinks of what his friends would have said. A boy who wanted to play detective describing the scene of carnage before him as if it were another weekday for him. Biting on the inside of his cheek, he pulls out the notepad from his back pocket before ripping out the one sheet of paper that's been marked with times over and over again. The gamemakers surely had to have known Bellamy Scott had been snooping around the place since he's been here. It's not been a secret, but he's kept an eye on all of the trainers and staff. Their schedules were memorized in his head.

A smile on his lips as he gives a small bow; paper left before them.

"I recommend you fire some staff or change their schedules around."

Every step is a blind one, but Bellamy's always been three steps ahead of everyone else.

"Also, you may want to reset the training center's passwords. Don't want a lowly kid like me seeing things he's not supposed to!"

The door closes.

A bitterness to his nose.

Brave or blind?

Neither.

Every step was planned.

[ryan]

And even now he had no clue what he was doing.

A private training session? He scoffed at the thought of it.

He took a deep breath as he walked through the door, realizing that right now, he needed to do something. Anything that could get him that much farther in the games.

He didn’t want to jinx anything, but he still wanted to do well. He wasn’t sure if he had as much drive has his brother, as he was a nasty person.

Thread on the other hand was kind.

---

He was a good liar wasn’t he?

He walked up through the halls and gave the trainers a couple looks as he realized that they were all talking about him. All of them had some sort of look that Thread wished he could have wiped off all of their faces. That wasn’t the point right now.

It was his time to try to impress the game makers.

So he walked through the doors and looked around, realizing that there had been quite a few objects for him to interact with.

However, when he looked up, he had a feeling that he was already being judged.

”Thread Gabel. District 8.”

He said stoically as he moved to the table where they had been knitting needles and yarn put neatly in a pile. It was like they knew that he would go for that.

He picked it up and quickly began to work through a patteren that he knew well. With a dark blue yarn, he was able to crochet a scarf that look almost exactly like his brothers. He had perfected a double stitching pattern that made it look like it was full body.

And it was.

”Ya see, something that is different about my deceased brother and I…” Thread said with a small bit of whimsey in his voice. ”Is that one, I talk a lot more than he did.” Thread laughed as he passed one of the trainers and gave him a smile. ”And that two…” he didn’t even waste a second throwing the scarf around one of the trainers necks and using his upper body strength to pull the other to the ground.

He pulled back on the scarf and put his foot on back on the mans neck, giving it enough pressure to squeeze ever last breath out of him. The trainer had been squirming in his clutches, but Thread had made it pretty clear that he was not going to let go.

With a loud thud with the trainers hand on the floor, he had let the man go from the choke hold that he had put him in with the scarf.

”See, didn’t even stretch the fabric, and still looks good as new.” Thread said with a small smile as he took the scarf and wrapped it around the trainers neck in a gentle way.

He stood up and looked at the game makers. ”Oh, I didn’t finish my statement huh?” Thread laughed for a moment before giving the game makers a light smile. ”No ones opinion of me is going to affect me while I am fighting for my life.” Thread said calmly as he bowed and made his way out of the room.

Quick and easy.

[gamemaker kelsier]

a v r i e l .

"Whatever mess you're in
The demons you've been fighting
Know that your quest is only just beginning"

I've got a glitch.

I never noticed it when I was little, guess it just didn't matter then. There's not a lot of reason to smile in Nine, there's nothing special. The sun sets, it rises, does it all again, people say you can be joyful about that. I can't, it's too simple. It happens everywhere, it's nothing special.

Special, they said and the label stuck like chewing gum to my fingers as I pressed it against the bottom of my desk in grade two. Rylan kicked my shin hard from across the way and pointed at Ev's hair but I just stared at him, pretended I didn't know what he wanted. Her curls lay like low hanging fruit across the top of my desk and they swept back and forth across the wood when she spoke.

Rylan called me soft later but I guess I just knew that I'd never see those curls again if I stuck gum in her hair.

And dad was so disappointed when I came home with the letter that my teacher wrote my parents. "She doesn't know what she's talking about," he'd said and then he'd crumpled it up and tossed it into the embers of the hearth.

She'd made me stay after class and I'd stared out the window at the schoolyard, watching where Duke and Billie stood waiting for me, a sense of calm spreading through me like a cool wave. I hadn't done anything wrong.

Maybe that's why she noticed the glitch in the first place, I never did anything wrong.

The battery is right where I asked for it to be.

It's smaller than I thought it'd be but I guess I've never really seen an automotive battery in real life before, not like there's much use for them in Nine. I pick it up by a handle and leave it in the centre of the training room floor before going to get the rest of the pieces.

It's easiest for me to come up with an invention by considering it as if it's already been created and I'm just the boy sent in to take it apart, then I don't have to think of the repercussions, I don't have to lay awake and wonder if I'm a dirtbag. In the end, the things I've made for the gangs of Nine have probably lead to a few deaths but I already learned what I could and couldn't live with the hard way.

I stop, fingers grazing over a few throwing knives at the blades station, the image of my parents, dead-eyed and bloody flicking across my vision no matter how hard I try to bypass it.

People look at me and they see some thug kid from Nine. I wasn't going to be that but it's what I had to become. I guess the benefit from that is I already know how low I can stoop to survive and the threat of Bills and Duke being next has always been more than enough to keep me in line.

A mickey of whisky from the improv station fits well in my pocket and all I need next is an empty picnic basket and a book of matches. The game makers watch me from their perch, the room is dead silent but for my movement. I know that this should make me feel nervous but that calm feeling slips through me, same way it always has, it's the glitch.

I reach the car battery again and I kneel down in front of it, knowing that the numbers flipping slowly on the wall above my head are counting down the time I have left, but I don't rush. If I mess up here, they'll be down a tribute. I don't want that just as much as them.

Our family used to go on picnics all of the time, and it's kind of nice to be packing a basket again. Normally, one of Duke's pies would be protected by the whicker, but this time it's a lithium battery. I start to work quicker, placing some of the knives around the perimeter of the battery within the basket and tying it loose together with a bit of string. There's a joy in this work for me, my fingers dance lightly across the pieces as I work and the invention finishes building itself in my head, a culmination of a few day's worth of thought.

I open the bottle of whiskey and pour it over the battery, the sweet fumes of the alcohol causing me to wrinkle my nose involuntarily. I always forget how bad it smells. I leave the empty bottle in the basket, might as well.

Three minutes remain.

I stand then and leave my little project behind for a moment, this whole thing is pointless if i can't show the damage it'll do. Training mannequins aren't far away, Rudy, my trainer this week in self defence, helps me drag four of them over to the basket to surround it. A whole alliance watches me as I apply the finishing touches, the match book, book closed and a match resting on the sandpaper, attached by the end with tree sap to a hair clip that I slip through the top of the basket. I leave the clip open, listening carefully for it to close as I shut the lid of the picnic basket over it.

click.

Gently, I tie one end of a spool of string to a handle of the picnic basket. Normally, the idea would be that a tribute might open the lid of the basket, assuming it's food or something, but for the demonstration this will have to do.

I walk backwards slowly, counting the distance in my head to ensure there's enough space between me and the little bomb I've just made. Then I give the string a sharp tug.

The lid of the basket goes flying back, the clip opens and the match ignites, igniting the other matches, then the whisky, then the lithium battery. The basket explodes within seconds, spraying glass, throwing knives and acid in a three hundred and sixty degree circle around it. I throw a hand over my eyes, missing the exact moment it detonates. My ears ring, the room tall enough that the sound of the blast echoes.

When I lower my hand, I see spots of acid eating away at the dummy's hyper realistic skin, glass shrapnel has embedded itself into their fake bodies and a few of the dummies have deep, bloody gashes through them where the blades shot through. Debris litter the floor between them and there's a sizeable chunk of floor matting missing from where the basket was sitting on the floor.

The dummy closest to the basket has a blade embedded in its eye. The dummy across from it is missing an arm, I spot it across the training room floor, resting against the wall.

That leaves two dummies still standing and four knives still in my pocket.

If these were tributes, they'd be disoriented, find it difficult to hear, probably be in pain. I'd have no better chance than now to take out the other two and there's the glitch again. That calm, coolness running over my fevered skin like a balm.

I throw the first knife, then a second.

The first one meets its mark and I recognize the second flying too high mid-flight.

I throw the third.

thunk.