F I R E gets you b u r n e d [Python]

Heavy, labored breaths consumed her.

Focus, focus, focus. Skin slick and glistening with the sweat of a machine at work - does it have feelings? Of course not. Does it function off of raw energy? Of course it does - the golden-haired deviant stepped away from the scattered remains of her previously targeted dummy. So simple it was to mindlessly plunge knives into every inch of its material until there were too many slits to count, too many wounds in which a tribute could suffer before they fell to the ground with limp, drenched bodies that would be carried away by a hovercraft only to be eternally forgotten once their pale corpses rested beneath the soil of their own land. It was an amusing thought, really, treasuring tributes before the games when twenty-three of them were destined to kiss the soil. But that was the point, wasn’t it? Tyranny and entertainment. The audience loves it, so why not give them more? The bitter thought brought a scowl to her features. Whether the end of the tunnel carried fame or fortune or nothing at all, her being tossed into an arena against her will seemed like a bit too much of a hassle, especially when her own life was being gambled. One roll of the dice: death. Another roll: victory?

Sometimes you could change the odds, and that’s exactly what she planned to accomplish.

Lapping salty droplets from around her lips she tossed one of her knives carelessly back where she had once rested and decided to temporarily direct her attention to another skill while she restored her energy. Jades flickered to the fire making station, where the smallest of orange flames flickered and emitted thin tendrils of smoke before extinguishing themselves without the slightest warning. Weak, but not to be underestimated. Use it wisely, and it could be one’s greatest ally. Play with it and one might just get burned - or in this case, killed.

She decided it was time for her to dance with flames - but never to be burned. Demeter didn’t burn; ashes were ashes, already broken down to bits and fragments that could never be mended.. She couldn’t be broken down more than she already was, and that was one of her most sacred weapons of all. Distracted by the thought of entering treacherous territory in less than a week’s time, she sauntered over to the station with an air of confidence, nearly stepping over the boy who seemed to be aimlessly clenching fire’s brethren without a purpose. Whoever he was, he was loitering for far longer than she desired. He wasn’t touching anything, just staring into space as if clueless and confused and lost. A lot of tributes were lost - strays, she preferred to call them. And as a hunter, it was her duty to dispose of the strays. ”I hope you know what you’re doing,” said the bitter dragon. ”We don’t need you burning the place down.”

The boy was hardly anything to be concerned about. He was a squealing mouse waiting to be captured by a feline’s claws, his voice as small as his hunched form standing before her with a lighter clutched tightly to his chest, as if it would fuel his heart with a flame of bravery.

You stand no chance, fool. The thought of his demise summoned a grin. He would die quickly, perhaps painfully, within the first day, she imagined. He would crumble beneath her grasp or fall at the hands of another, most likely by a member of the career pack. A pack of wolves, they were, vicious and hungry, but much too confident. Are you confident? Of course she was. She was as capable of stealing a human soul as any other tribute. But she wasn’t arrogant; an eternal repetitive flaw that caused the downfall of many thriving careers. Secretly, she hoped the careers would just kill each other or destroy themselves like savages. She could imagine the greed consuming them, tempting them to murder their own allies while they were most vulnerable - in their sleep, possibly - and then ending up stranded, alone, and with nobody to assist them if an ambush occurred. It was a pleasant thought, really. To watch a career pack tear at each other like cavemen would be her greatest pleasure. They deserved nothing.

But life was never oh so simple, unfortunately. Victory would not come easy - it never did. There were a few rewards in life, however; a few gifts from fate. This boy’s death would be one of them. Something easy to carry out. She need not even worry, even as he claimed he did know how to use a lighter despite her previous accusation. Arching her brow at his pathetic attempt to act bolf and stand up to her with confidence, she crossed her arms and shifted her weight to one side. It was almost cute, the way he tried to act masculine. Like a kitten pretending to be a lion. Pure entertainment. ”Let’s see it, then.” she retorted evenly, her icy gaze remaining narrowed upon his.He seemed to be placing all of his effort into avoiding her gaze - a clear sight of cowardice. She wondered just how vulnerable he would be in the arena. How badly would it tear him to shreds? If he survived long enough, would he break? There was always somebody who ended up shattering before their very deaths. The arena was a land of pain and guilt and misery to most tributes, and some were not built for the stress. They always said the arena could change a person. Will it change you?

”Build me a fire.”