THE FOUR HORSEMEN {I Got a New World In My View}

willis keeni

all along the western front
people line up to receive
she got the power in her hand
to shock you like you won't believe

I become increasingly frustrated with this station. The instructor is so patronising that it's making me want to throw the knives at her, instead of the rubber targets. I've done this so many times in the past, but she doesn't realize that. She just keeps talking about how I need to improve. I don't need lecturing on technique or style, just let me hit the damn target, woman. Of course, it's not the woman that's stopping me from hitting those dummies in the chest or face, no. I just like to blame other things, so that I'm not constantly thinking about my tremors all the damn time.

I'd always find ways to distract myself at home, else I'd go mad from it. Simple things, hobbies if you like. I liked to keep active - I'm thinking in past tense, which only shows how pessimistic I am about all of this - I used to go running when things got bad. I could keep my head down, staring at the ground, as I ran through Six. The cardiovascular strain was often enough to negate the effects of my condition. I can't run now though, as much as I'd like to. I'd love to run away from this cursed city full of fools and fake friends. They all act so warm and amiable towards us, but really they want us dead.

I throw three more knives in the general direction of the silhouette targets, and all three whistle wide of the mark. I swear under my breath, waiting for the green light to allow me to walk out to the throwing range and retrieve the knives. They sure are careful to avoid freak accidents in training. I don't think I've ever heard of a Tribute dying before the Games, at least not in my lifetime. It'd be nice to die now, and not have to go through this painful process of training, scoring, ranking, prepping, interviewing, preparing and then eventually killing. I feel like nothing more than a decorated pig, ready to have it's throat slit.

As I get ready to throw again, another Tribute approaches me. He is tall, well built with a natural fitness about him. He has a towel wrapped around his neck, obviously because he has been hard at work getting ready to kill us all. He's a Career, all the evidence suggests. District Four, mesomorphic build, and the brother of Ewe Saw. This is Eye, I know he is ruthless, maybe even crazy, and looking for revenge. Not someone I want to get on the wrong side of. I have to make a good first impression, here.

"Hey man, want to be allies?"

Well, that was easier than I expected.

My muscles tense. Why would Eye Saw want me as an ally? I clearly have no natural talent (at least not sober, and he probably knows nothing about my deadly drunken state) and I'm not exactly a physical presence either. Maybe this is a pity thing, because of Pyrian and Gypsie. If he's asking me to be his ally because we've both lost family members to the Games in the past, then I want nothing to do with him. I refuse to be defined by the mistakes of my psychologically unstable cousins.

"W-What? Why?" I stutter, the words escaping from my mouth before they have fully formed. I swallow and try to regain some composure, "Why do you want to be my ally?"
I don't even know you, and you want to put your life in my hands?

all along the eastern shore
put your circuits in the sea
this is what the world is for
making electricity