e flat minor {kirito and beatriz} 70th vt

I longed for one of them to win.

The Doctrines.

Sue Tate, Wyatt O'Connor, Noah Bowers and Maya Xiaoqing.

A team, linked arms yet all somehow fighting for the same crown whilst friendship grew like ivy up their beings. One, two days, they managed to be together. Peaceful and comforted by one another. No severity or excruciating pain: just each another for one another.

The third day hit like a storm. The rain came in and washed away Noah Bowers, lightning struck to take Maya from me and the day was filled with destruction in the true sense of the word. Blood and knives and loss of eyes and inevitably: death.

And for the remaining two: Sue Tate and Wyatt O'Connor, there was more bloodshed to come. They survived it, they fought to live like the survivors they were to prove a point to the gamesmakers. You could see the hope in their sunken eyes.

But thunder shook and stole another: Sue Tate. Gone too soon from this world.

And as time drew past like lines by a child, it all came down to two. Kirito Miristioma and Wyatt O'Connor. I swore to myself that I wouldn't care who won, I swore that Maya's passing wouldn't affect my opinions on the others, but it was him.

Wyatt O'Connor and Kirito Miristioma.

He was the one who killed the girl Rowan Combe.

And it was when I saw them on the tiddly television screen that my fires began to burn inside me. A hunger, a desperate thirst for Wyatt O'Connor to win which could only be quenched by such. And though the odds were stacked up against him and sponsors seemed to like the other boy more there was something inside me which thought he could do it.

That he could win.

My eyes were pinpointed of him, I sent a prayer in hopes that he'd be protected. But a girl from nine isn't meant to see miracles happen, only the opposite. So I watched as Kirito Miristioma twirled around and cut, cut, cut his way into Wyatt.

There was red from both parties, yet Kirito created an ocean like no other.

My mind ran crazy just looking at the screen, seeing another body on the ground waiting to be picked up and sent back home. A prize for a tremendous effort, but a prize topped only by survival.

Kirito Miristioma.

----

District Nine hasn't seen itself produce a victor since Colgate O'Leary, and whilst such an event was only four years ago, hope still managed to diminish from us. Our tributes since hadn't done particularly well at all because they were beaten by others: Leon Krigel and Patricia Valfierno and Katelyn Persimmon and Kirito Miristioma. 

It doesn't make sense when you look at it plainly. Someone who has been there, done that, got the t-shirt can't train and teach a tribute to do what they did. It's an enigma waiting to be solved, and with the addition of Kirito Miristioma joining the collective of victors, I feel like District Eleven has defied the odds.

Katelyn Persimmon: District Eleven. Kirito Miristioma: District Eleven. I want to know what she told him, if she told him anything, or whether he just relied on luck to carry him through these games and out the other side.

Because when you're on the outside, that's what winning the games looks like: pure luck.

Katelyn visited our District during her victory tour, most likely to converse with Colgate O'Leary so they can discuss their misfortunes. I sympathise for them all, the victors, but they aren't the ones who suffered the pain.

They delivered it.

Perhaps it's a misconception that the victors are expected to teach and help. If I were them, I'd give up with the victory tour and try to figure out how I'd see the next one out alive. I wouldn't waste my time waving to the crowds who've had to see their friend, their citizen, their sister die so they could win.

We stare up at the Justice Building, haunted by the memories of what happen to Maya in that arena, her face pasted in ghostly shades of black and white like there's no tomorrow. The pride of our family, a representation of what it took to come, to see and to conquer whilst battling death.

My eyes widen, staring at the shadow which makes its way on stage. The pictures of Maya are quickly replaced by something monstrous: Kirito Miristioma. The little boy from District Eleven who had luck on his side, who had sponsors under his belt, who killed Rowan Combe, who killed Wyatt O'Connor without thinking twice.

I don't want to hear the dribble which will come out of his mouth. He can try to apologise for her death, but we'll look at him with broken, glassy eyes which can still look right through him. 

It was his sword which delivered the final blow to end to 70th Hunger Games, but it could be his words which start a war.