The Hunger Games [open]

Career Training.

It seeps into my Daily Routine somehow. My parents force me into the freaking crap to, "help me" become a "better" fighter. I don't need to be. I could cut up someone in a matter of seconds if I wished. Dumb ass people who think they are superior because they can hit a stuffed dummy with a knife "three times in a row". Well, dumb-asses out there, dummies aren't real!. They won't throw a spear back at you. They won't stand there, but dive away from your attacks and counter back.
These clubs are nothing but a confidence boost to stupid kids whom think they have a chance, a reason, a way, a trickle of hope, a strategy at winning, when they don't. They think they can throw a knife. Can they throw one at a human moving twelve miles an hour while you try and dodge the arrow they shot at you? No. The Games is luck, and nothing more.
A little of survival skill, a bit of muscle, and luck=Victor. Which is why as I sit in the Training Stations Waiting Room, I think these things. They call my name, and I let a groan escape my lips. I walk into the big dome, full of other kids with hope, and I take it in. I feel padded floors under my feet, supporting me with every step. I look up at the hole in the ceiling, letting light flood in and swim in the air. I see the wall to my left, coated in moving targets that roam around, up to the ceiling, and then back down, as a girl with a knife tries hitting them, but fails massively at it.
To the right on a centered wall, is a rope typing station that has one very very skinny, tiny, bony boy that would be dead around the first day of the Games. I see another girl to the right of him as she tries shooting a bow. Idiot. Her arrow flies towards the target, but then swerves to the left and hits the ground right next to the woman running the station. I snort, and roll my eyes. These people are so-whiiish. A knife flies by my face, into the target opposite me, hitting a bulls-eye in the center. I turn an observe for people around me, but then I see a kid across the room, clutching a handful of knives, and figure that the kid just threw a knife all the way across the room and hit the bulls-eye. Holy crap. That is a Victor.
No more "joking around" or "hitting targets". This is gonna be fun. I sprint full on to the knife station, and pick up a handful of knives. My adrenaline flies through me, grabs my soul, tugs at my heart, flings through my entire being and into my hand, where all of my energy transfers as I release the first knife at the boy.

{Attacks First Person That Posts]
Thrown Knife: [dice=200+9000]

Knife Deep In Chest-9.0 Damage