Best Quotes From Every Tribute, Every Day

"'Sorry for punching you,' I say groggily, nothing above a whisper.

He shrugs and I let my hand fall from his arm.

'I’m over it.'

Needles tear through my skin, thread pulls the jagged and bloody flesh back together, bandages turn from bright white to a deep red. I twist my head to look at Atlas.

'Sorry for yelling about the dick on my face,' I mutter, managing to get the corners of my mouth to curl. 'It was actually pretty funny.'

My vision may be blurry, but his smile cuts through it.

'Fuck yeah it was hilarious.'

I chuckle for a moment before the pain cuts back in. I grimace and groan and let my head fall back against the ground. I fall asleep to the sound of silence."

"Justice wouldn't hit someone while they were down. And he would've loved to be friends with Scout. And he wishes that none of this was happening.

But Justice is just a scared little kid, trying to live up to the expectation of his one and only idol—

Fray.

I press my boot into the blade of her axe and kneel down to close the distance between us. I swallow the lump in my throat before I look at her.

'And your name isn't Krigel, Scout,' I say, managing a twinge of a smile before it quickly falls from my face. 'But we're gonna try to kill eachother anyway, aren't we?'

And it's as simple as that. I stand and I pick up my axe and I wait long enough to give her a chance to stand. And I don't know why but I want someone to know—'My favorite color is the soft pink you see in the sky when the sun sets.'—so I tell her.

And then I swing.

Because the name Justice and Fray will always go together, no matter how hard one tries to escape the other."

"She is the only person I've met in this world that proves that there is hope for me. And her blood is dripping from the blade of my axe.

I've grown used to being let down, numb to the pain of disappointing everyone. But snuffing out the only light I've ever seen throughout my years of wandering in total darkness? I don't-- I'm finally going to break. And it's going to be the girl whose best insult is something along the lines of—'You lizard-eared scumbucket!'—that does it.

I'm fighting tears now. My eyes swim but I don't let the tears fall. I brush my thumb over the tip of my nose, the purple stone sliding off easily. The corners of my mouth twist into a smile and I raise my eyebrows.

She says we could never have been friends.

'Are you sure?'

And I don't mean for my voice to break when I ask, and I don't mean for it to come out all raspy and out of breath. But my heart is twisting and my throat is tight and the rhinestone tickles on the tip of my nose and I just want to go home and for this to end so I can go back to pretending that nothing bothers me and nothing hurts.

And I wish I still had hope.

And I wish I didn't have to take someone who shines so brightly and plunge her into eternal darkness."

"She struggles to stand again, and I wonder just how many times I'll have to shove her to the ground before she stops getting back up. How many times will I have to watch her fall before the gentleman buried deep, deep inside finally decides to catch her?

She sways and I take a few steps closer with an arm outstretched. But she steadies herself after a few shuddering breaths and a bit of concentration.

And then I watch as her fingertips brush over the tip of my nose, taking the purple gem as they go. And she holds the bead of plastic to my lips and says, 'Make a wish.' And I'm convinced she truly is a fairy from another world here to grant me a single wish. Or perhaps she's more like a falling star, hoping she can make someone feel better before she fizzles out.

'I'll even friend zone you if that's what you want.'

And I really do laugh then. A spluttering, barely containing myself laugh that slips through my lips. It brings more tears forward with it."

"And I feel a single tear finally fall free.

'I wish--' I swallow the lump in my throat and try to catch my breath. And my hand shakes against hers and I wish, wish, wish that wishes did come true.

'I wish you'd tell me a fairytale.'

And I keep my eyes closed as I step back and I take deep shuddering breath. And I hope she can hear what I really mean when I say 'fairytale.' Because as I swing at her again I need her to understand what I mean.

Please, Scout. I wish you'd tell me a lie.

And this time as she crumbles, I make sure to catch her."

"The fair maiden. The sunset on the ocean, the sprinkles on the cupcakes, the light at the end of the tunnel, the only idea I’ve ever fallen in love with, and the only person who can guarantee that I’ll be okay.

I let the axe slip through my fingers and wrap my arm around her waist. I press my cheek into the back of her head. I take a deep breath and hope to taste the ocean on my tongue, but I can’t smell anything beyond sweat and blood. But that’s okay because at least I know this isn’t one of my desperate fantasies. At least I know she’s human, that she’s real.

I try to disappear into her breathing, let the rise and fall of her chest simply carry me away to somewhere new, somewhere safe. Because even though she struggles to stand, I have never known someone so steady. My fingers find the back of her neck, lacing themselves into her hair. And I think I could stay like this forever, letting the closeness and easiness of--this to consume me.

'And the fair maiden?'

I ask, breathing my question into her head.

'Is she gonna be okay?'"

- justice fray, district one male [ arx ] in merchants of soul


"Being apart from her other half feels strange, as if only now has she truly lost one of her legs. This is when she realizes she is no longer whole.

Parts of the pretty girl from Four have been carved away: flesh, bone, little pieces of her that once keened and laughed. Now she blinks and wonders what she sees. The water here is wrong, foul within and foul without, and yet she sees herself in it. Nothing lives in this ocean, although it is full of bones and evidence of former life. She isn't alone.

Paling at the sight of another face in the mist, she steadies herself upon the crutch of her sword. The weapon holds her up because she couldn't manage without it; it is part of who she is now, a leg and a tooth all at once. Here, she and Roger have slowly been eating themselves alive and she is so hungry, even though thoughts of it make her hate herself. Part of her heart is named Fray and she swings her sword at it, hoping it takes a bite out of his flesh the same way the choice to sever her quiet ties with him cuts away another piece of herself. 'Neither of us are supposed to be here.' Maybe they will both be lucky enough to die today. Death no longer seems as scary as what happens if she continues living.

When she takes her last breath, she does not believe kindness will be the last thing she sees."

"But I can't stop.

It's why she attacked him. She doesn't hate him, doesn't want him dead, doesn't want him hurt, even. The opposite. Scout wants Justice to live forever because he is everything that she is. They deserve to be as immortal as their names. It isn't fair that they're being torn apart piece by piece, as if being sold for parts. All she wants is for the boy in front of her not to be here in this horrible place and that's why she can't stop.

The world spins with her logic as she realizes that swinging her sword means she's unstable. Everything holding her up gives out and she goes crashing to the ground as Justice swings his own attack at her. "I don't want to know you! I don't want to know your name! I was never supposed to know your name!" The pain of collision swells in her voice as she yells, voice edged with the threat of hysterical sobbing. Rolling onto her back she makes the mistake of looking up into his face, of looking into his eyes and wondering what he sees right now. 'We would have been friends or — who knows.'"

"'I didn't want to know that,' she lies as if faking bravery. There is no realization — there never has been — that she doesn't have to fake what she actually has. 'That's such a girly color,' she murmurs and can't stop the corner of her mouth from tugging itself up into half a hidden smile before whispering even more quietly, 'you should see it when the sun sets on the ocean...'

He cuts her sentimentality off, despite leaving her body mostly in tact. A cut wells up on her arm and the small blow that inflicted it is enough to push her off balance again, her sword swinging at him once more and not entirely by accident. With a shriek of pain she hits the ground hard, head cracking against stone and one of the stitches popping free that mended the absence of her leg. The small slash on her arm can't compare to what she's already been living with. 'I couldn't have been friends with you,' she hisses through grit teeth, letting the the agony make her sound harsh enough to hide what she really means: she would have been too nervous, too full of butterflies to talk to Justice in a normal life. A million imaginary conversations would have played out in her head, about his favorite color and stories about their siblings and joking how the world could never handle them getting married and having kids someday because the world is not ready for that kind of genetically flawless hair, but in reality she'd have turned shy and hidden her face in her sketchbook as she walked away. She wouldn't have wanted him to see her cheeks turning his favorite color, only the way the air around her might sparkle as she walked away."

"A unicorn spontaneously combusts.

Tears threaten Justice's fairy tale-approved eyes and the world of pretend within Scout's fluffy, bedazzled heart falls apart at the sight. The inexplicable garden begins to wilt and the breeze within the nothingness dissipates. "Are you sure?" She shouldn't feel certain about things that have never happened, can't ever happen, wouldn't have happened no matter what because their paths couldn't have crossed in any alternate universe. They were too far away from each other, separated by distance and District walls, and so it's ridiculous to feel close to him now.

'So sure,' she whispers in the wake of his axe gashing her arm open as if determined to truly see into her. However, the false malice is gone as she looks into an expression that so closely mirrors the aching of her life this past week — pain different from lost limbs and festering wounds. Her hand lays itself across her stomach, fingers stretched out upon the sketchbook strapped to her torso with dirtied scraps of bandages. It's badly concealed, but hiding it is not the point, despite keeping her hand drawn comic books secret for as long as she can remember because cartoons aren't cool. She just wanted to be able to hold on no matter what. Harper always told her they were drawn too beautifully to be embarrassed about, but she knew it was something that couldn't ever fit into other people's ideas of who she was supposed to be. Too old for fairy tales and too pretty to be such a dork, Scout wound up suppressing so much of herself that she never felt like she'd become who she was. All sparkling surface, no depth. 'You don't look like the kind of guy girls want to be friends with. Do I not look like a girl anymore?' Instead of her missing parts, her fingers clutch a book that proves Scout Krigel is the girliest girl in the history of all girls ever, her voice laced with the kind of nervous lack of confidence that has always bumbled her honesty. 'Would you have looked at me and thought: I wanna be friend zoned by her.' She pauses with curiosity and an amused smile. 'Did you?'

It's easier to tell the truth when she thinks about how she's probably about to die."

"This is it. This is all she's got.

The truth is that Scout has never known how not to friend zone everyone who ever hoped for a little bit more from her. This is a girl who knows how to be wanted, but who doesn't know what wanting means. It's not stupidity, just naivety and the self-preservation instincts of her innocence. She knows she's always been too pretty for her own good and that people think things when they look at her, she knows a hand reaching out to grip her waist is an attempt to pull her closer, and she knows that there's something about skin that makes people... something. What comes next has only ever been her secret confusion as she made excuses and slipped away like fog through the world's fingers.

It was easy to close her eyes and smile, spinning in circles around bonfires and laughing into the shoulders of a crowd that passed her along as if maybe she'd decide she fit within someone's embrace if only enough people tried. Sooner or later one would feel just right. Countless eyes would watch as she danced, thinking look at her, look at that girl, I'd sure like to —

Something."

"Pulling away from her, Justice doesn't look as Scout stops fighting her tears and lets them fall wild and free. She's finally starting to figure out what happens next. 'O-once,' she whispers shakily, 'once upon a t-t-time —' Something is what happens next. Stubbornness keeps her eyes open as he swings his axe at her and she knows she couldn't avoid this even if she tried, so she stands there and watches the blade, watches his face as she cries out when the weapon bites into her hip and Justice knocks her off her feet all over again. It's not that she's given up because she only has one leg or she'd have died in the bloodbath the moment her foot was broken. It's that she doesn't want to run away. She wants to be here. She wants.

Speaking of fairytales, Scout falls for Justice and he catches her.

Sword clattering away, the only thing holding her up now is the arm that reaches out and pulls her to him. Exhaling a heavy breath of relief against his chest, he is warm and soft and, unlike the ground or other people's expectations of a Fray, he isn't made of stone. 'There was a,' the trembling in her breath tries and fails to be laughter, 'a fair maiden, the fair-fairest maiden in all the land... like sooo pretty. There's no way y-you've ever,' she turns her face into his shoulder, hiding all the wounds and new scars marring her, 'ever seen a girl this pretty.' Maybe it's because she's smaller than she used to be now that some of her limbs have been cut away, but it turns out she fits into someone else's arms just fine. 'There's th-this prince too. Nice hair. He's okay, I guess... or... or he's gonna be.' This isn't what she thought she'd find in the dark, but this is it. This is all she's got."

- scout krigel, district four female [ L△LIA ] in merchants of soul


"He'd rather roll around in a pile of sea urchins than move another inch.

But move he must, because the figure in front of him is not the one he's looking for.

'So, does the Devil own your soul? Is that how you're still breathing?'

The question is punctuated by the heavy heft of a warhammer — swung slowly enough that even one-legged, Roger sidesteps the strike without issue.

'The devil's made it pretty clear that she wants nothing to do with me.' Or that she wants me piece by piece.

He casts an eye towards the acid lake, wondering if Davy Jones is still the sailor's devil this many miles from the sea. A pond is not an ocean, and whatever's filling it certainly isn't water — but Roger has been cut down to half a pirate, anyhow, so perhaps it's close enough for him.

'Your hand's probably redder than mine, Nine. The only thing I've done to deserve this was sign myself up.' It was true — Roger hadn't killed so much as a mutt in the week he's spent getting hacked to pieces.

Scout Krigel, a small voice in the back of his head reminds him. You killed Scout Krigel.

No, he hadn't — he'd just kept her from getting saved. Scout Krigel still breathes.

A cannon fires in the distance.

He hopes."

"And she'd made him the cloak that was slung over his stump, had delivered the final blows to the beasts that hounded them, had made an end of the girl from Five for harming him.

When he was a little boy, Roger Strangways-Teach had pictured himself as a hero, a giantslayer, a valiant knight — even a victor, from time to time. It came as no surprise when, at seven, he found an idol in Fitz Ripley.

But the stammering boy from District Nine is anyone but Stark Harper. Atlas White lacked the malice. He didn't deserve to drown in his own blood before he fell face first in the water. Roger would be no hero for giving him to Davy Jones.

And even though the pirate had volunteered to save a girl, he'd done it for the wrong one.

'You have plenty of time to catch up, Four. Keep on going, your hands are already turning red.'

'Hand,' he corrects. 'Your Fray boy saw to that.'

He could never be a Fitz Ripley."

"His forehead is collateral damage, a curtain of crimson covering his eyes, spilling down his face. Everything runs red. Even the false diamonds that decorate his beard have turned to rubies.

'It's funny isn't it?'

The helm of his cloak tumbles to the ground, red and ruined. It's funny how Scout Krigel keeps saving his life, even after they've parted.

'You kill me and then, you become me. A tribute with innocent lives on his shoulders.'

He's already carried one innocent life on his back. Butchered and broken, there is no room for a second. Roger Strangways-Teach could cut down every other tribute in this godforsaken hellhole and he wouldn't feel half as guilty as he does for every scratch on Scout's body. He's turned it over and over and over in his head.

He had good intentions when he signed himself up for the Games. To keep his sister safe, keep her from volunteering on her own. Hell, that other boy — what had his name been? — even got to keep out of this pit. Roger can't bring himself to feel good about it.

'My namesake bore the weight of the world- can you?'

No. He's already been crushed under the weight of one little girl."

"As if the second someone from District Four picks up a sword, a spear, a glaive, they suddenly become something reprehensible.

But when Atlas White hefts his hammer at a girl who hasn't harmed him, it is somehow forgivable. Because he isn't from a place where children are taught how to aim true.

The pirate's honor is a subject he doesn't plan to address — not here. By his count, Roger has anywhere between two minutes and two days left in this hell, and his grey integrity is nuanced enough to demand a lifetime of nights curled up in a tallbacked armchair, lights off, four fingers curled around the neck of a bottle of rum. He isn't about to tease out the specifics of his dignity with a bloodstained boy whose first words to Roger were accusing him of being in league with the devil.

'I don't care,' he whispers. And it's true that he doesn't. Roger Strangways-Teach has always been bad at putting stock in the opinions of strangers, and he has no reason to listen to feedback from the boy who's three wounds in debt to him."

"'I don't care,' he repeats, more firmly this time. More resolute. After a lifetime spent mediating middle-grounds between his ever-warring family, friends, crewmates, blunt honestly is liberating. He doesn't care what happens to Atlas White after he dies. Doesn't care what happens to Roger Strangways-Teach after he dies. Nothing, probably. Nothing sounds like sweet release after the battering he's taken.

"Or will all I ever amount to is another notch in the belt of a detestable man?"

'Don't know.' Atlas's hammer is slower and heavier with every swing. Roger leans into the staff of his glaive and lets the heavy weapon whistle past him. 'I don't know you well enough to make that judgement.'

He softens a little. 'But that would be sad for you.'"

"'I'll wear it then, for what it's worth to you. Til the day I die.' His teeth are tinted red when he smiles, a chuckle — soft, but genuine — tumbles out. 'Tomorrow, probably.'

His mustache meets his beard again, lips turning downward as he sobers. He doesn't care — doesn't care what Atlas White thinks of him, doesn't care what the boy thinks of himself — but it is a small thing. Roger's never killed a man before. He may be no valiant little tailor, but it may not be the worst idea to etch one in seven blows into his belt. Not as a point of pride, but as a reminder — the one souvenir of his time in this arena that he has control over. 'But I will.'

Like every morning that's come before this one, Roger will still wake up surprised that he hasn't died in the night. (Or, whatever passes for night down here.) Assuming he makes it to sleep (or whatever passes for sleep down here.)

'When I die, that is the end of me, the end of my suffering. It should never be the living who pity the dead.' Roger smiles again, familiar with the sentiment. He's spent the last several days wondering why he hasn't died yet — wishing not here, not here all the while.

'Pity me, then?' he requests. The pirate isn't sure why. 'When it's time.'

The hammer falls.

Like a gavel on a sounding block, the gem-encrusted steel hits his five toes, sentencing him guilty! Roger drops with it, a mournful howl escaping his throat."

- roger strangways-teach, district four male [ gm bourgeois decadence [aya] ] in legends never die


"They say it’s painless.

After you die. When you’re “moving on”.

And as I stand there frozen with my mouth wide open staring down at Achilles’ body, broken and covered in blood, I can only hope that they’re right.

I don’t understand it, why I’m still here. It should be Percy, Petra, or Achilles. I was always the weakest, and I still am, even in their death.

I am not supposed to be here.

I am the girl who was glass, the girl who came here to die.

But now I am the girl made of steel. I am the girl who is all alone.

I have no one left. All that surrounds me is silence and death.

There is no one for me here. There is no one left for me at home. There is no one. And sometimes in my darkest dreams I wish death upon myself. Because at least I know in death I will not be alone, there will be someone waiting for me.

I know that in death I will no longer be in pain."

"Red.

It used to be the color of pretty flowers. The color of sunsets.

The things in Six that I would so delicately paint. The things that gave me a reason to live.

Now I see it everywhere. Now it means death.

Blood. It surrounds me on all sides. Bubbling in pools on each side, covering the ground around me, covering me. It seems as if the blood stains in my clothes will never come out, and that the blood on my skin is now tattooed. Marks of what I have done.

Marks of my pain.

They will never leave me.

No matter how hard I try."

"'I’m not sure what to believe anymore.'

And before I have to even breath, excruciating pain fills my body. I fall onto my side and no matter how hard I try to be strong a scream escapes me. Blood pours out and I see my foot a few feet away. I quickly turn my head, because I’m not sure if I’ll be able to get up if I look at it much longer. My eyes water but I hold back my tears. I finally reach for my weapon. I use my spear to help myself up slowly, balancing on it once I’m upright. I look at him and give a gentle a smile.

'Tell me Machaon, is it worth it? Is it really worth it?'

Because I’m not sure if it is. There’s nothing here. And I’m not sure if there will be anything at home. My fingers tighten around my spear.

'All I know for sure is the God I pray to stopped listening to me long ago.'"

"I have lost myself. And I’m not sure if anyone could find me.

I’m not sure if I’ll be able to find me.

'Nobody. I’m responsible for saving myself and that’s it,'

I can’t help but laugh at him.

'Good luck with that. Nobody can do it alone, no matter how hard they try,'

My mind instantly flashes to Petra, Percy, and Achilles. How utterly useless I was. How they managed to save me. How I would not be here without them. How I would be dead now, if it wasn’t for them.

Maybe I’d be better off that way.

His sword carves its way into my stomach, but I do not cry out. This time I just whimper. The pain is becoming unbearable, I’m not sure how much more I can take. My shirt is now in pieces and it’s not the violet it once was. It is red. Like everything else here. I push my hair behind my remaining ear. I stand a little taller, hold my head a little higher.

'You know, it doesn’t really matter. As long as you can somehow be happy.'"

"I’m not sure if I’ve ever been love. I’m not sure if I even truly know what it means.

To be in love. They say it’s this feeling you get, and you feel unmeasurable joy. They say you just know. That you don’t have to think about it. Your fingers tingle and you feel like your whole world is spinning. My heart longs to feel like that, but I don’t think it ever has.

I think back to when I still had a family. When me and mom and dad would be together. I realize that is a different love. A love that was still ripped away from me. Taken when I was so young, so young that I can barely remember.

And then there’s the feeling I get when I’m drawing. But I haven’t drawn in a long time. Not here, not at home. Not since Jequirity, not since Amerika. Never again.

I have no reason to. I begin to realize as I stand here, my blood pooling, pulse weakening, that I will never be in love.

I will never be happy.

I have no chance."

"Normally I would scream in frustration with how little damage I have done-

but I am too tired to care.

This place has done things to me that I have never thought possible. I came here to die, but the moment I saw the slightest bit of home, I clung to it. I did not think that I would still be here. And now I wish that I never had gotten here. I was meant to die long ago. It was supposed to be Percy, or Petra, or Achilles. Not me.

I was supposed to be dead long ago. I have nothing to back to.

There is nothing left for me. I did this to myself.

'Where do you think home is?'

And his sword cuts into me again. I flinch back from the pain, but I do not scream. There is no point. His blow, though weak, almost takes me to my knees. I can no longer do this.

I am no more. I am dying.

'I’m not sure. All I know is that it is anywhere but here,'"

- lucrezia eckhart, district six female [ d1b. xylia fray ♕ kaяi ] in all that you will ever be


"I shiver despite the scorching heat in this hell. I shake and cry throughout the night. I flinch and tear up at every sound created. My mind creates the illusion of the voices of my dead friends whispering inside my ear. Ren taunting me that I failed her, Travers screaming at me that I was a weakling, and Em, oh Emmery. Even at the slightest thought of my friend I want to curl up and cry.

All I could hear of her was her body hitting the ground over, and over, and over again. I remember screaming in outrage as I swung at the girl from two, killing her. I am no longer human, I am just a ghost of something that once was human.

My hair is a frenzy, mixed with blood and sweat and other substances that I have picked up in this arena. My eyes are bloodshot and wide open from the restless night in the arena. I am all alone, my mind withering into despair."

"That was when I ran into Daniel, and at first I want to hug him and cry, seeing a familiar face. Then I hear the voices of Ren, Travers, and Emmery whispering to me. He wants to kill you, don't let him. Live for us.

So I look up at my friendenemy, and with tears in my eyes I whisper, 'I'm sorry.' Then I swing."

"This boy is my one piece of home left, and I am attacking it, trying to squash that piece of home I have. I shiver as I feel his axe slice me and I hear the symphony of voices screaming at me again.

Don't show your pain.

Don't show your emotions.

Don't show your weakness.

No, I can't let my weakness show. If I let it show, even for a split second the rest of the horrers that lay down here will be pouncing on me in the blink of an eye, and I need to go home. When I saw Emmery slashed down by Scout, someone I had thought as helpful when we were taking down a dragon together, I vowed to live, but not for me. I couldn't care less if I only had to live for me.

No, I have to live for them."

"I need to make sure that Ren, and Travers, and Em, and everyone else here are remembered, and not just remembered in sparkling television screens or the glittery words from Caesar Flickerman. I need to make sure they are remembered for who they are, and who really hurt them this bad.

That is why, with a heavy shattered heart, I hold back a tear, and slash again at Dan, not saying a word and instead remaining silent. Not the silence I had when I first came to the capitol from shyness. This is the silence from my resolve to make sure that I live for my friends."

"Last night, when I was hearing the voices of the lost ones, gifts came to me. One of those, was a flower crown. And so this morning, I carefuLly slipped my new ballet shoes on along with my flower crown. It befitted a girl with the name of Iris. I had been named after the flower, the elegant gracefulness of it was what I reminded my parents of when I was born, or at least that is what they told me.

Now, I am no longer elegant and graceful, and instead my eyes are hard and battle worn, my hair is clumped together with blood, and like all others here I stink like hell. One because I am in hell. Two because all teenagers sweat a lot and no one recieved deodorant in the bloodbath. The game makers should start putting some in there."

"Anyways, the voices continue to whisper in my head, the flowery petals seeming to keep them trapped in there. I keep holding back my tears, showing no weakness. Evidently, Daniel adopted my same train of thought.

This means he is really trying to kill me just as I am trying to do the same to him.

It makes me cringe, the thought of killing someone else, but I need to make sure that I stay alive. I need to make sure that I keep the memory alive, and I will do the same for Daniel. I won't let district seven, or anyone forget him either.

Then, trying to be the queen the voices in my head are urging me to be, I gently push my flower crown into position, and strike again."

- iris flower-oak, district seven female [ pup ] in back to the trees away from the fire


"If Daniel were to be honest, he believed that she wanted to stay as far away from him as she can. He believed that nobody wanted anything. Hell, he's very comfortable with the idea. He was alone, and nobody wanted to fix that. Even if they wanted to, at what cost? They'd be talking to the dead, whispering to the corpses. It's almost unfortunate that people have to face that. But, that's how this world seems to tell it's tale. With the constant speech to the dead, and they have yet to know where they're going to end up. The night was his only way to think to himself, but now that they're gone, he's left to think for himself.

During the night, a ghost similar to the one he had met on day two had escaped from the walls in its soft and warm demeanor. It bared gifts for him, a stuffed heart and a notebook filled to the brim with music notes and ideas. It was Hypatia’s. Her last story her last legacy in this world she kept. It was then that he knew what he must do. Daniel thumbed through the pages, some of them torn out and left for the wind to carry them away."

"He had to win. Gain redemption for Natalie, Hypatia and Minos. He had to win for Blanche and Stella and Sue. Daniel had to win for anyone, someone in his life. Daniel had to win for himself, to show that he was someone.

So he went to rest, dusted by the determination that danced him. In the morning he met the sunrise, and gathered his barely audible thoughts in unity. The person who he'd face now was unknown, and his only prayer was that it wasn't Iris.

It's unfortunate that he hadn't learned there is no god after yesterday's events.

There, in the flesh was his district partner. Iris Flower-Oak. His only piece of home, his very last hint of the place he grew up in. Her words were quick, forced almost.

'I’m sorry.'

When he heard her apology, it was neglected by him. 'We both want to go back home, you don't need to be sorry.'

Daniel's story had come to it's rising action, so let it be heard; let it be told. In the burning passion to stay alive, he swung at her. He was sorry for attacking, but he wasn't sorry for trying to return home.

Besides, they volunteered to go through this pain, and the pain was only one thing of thousands they'll have to break free of."

"Iris was broken. He could see that in her eyes, the worried and sad expression that painted upon them. She would slip in and out of the presentation of her emotion for many reasons it seemed, though we both knew why there was little to no emotion being shown. Showing emotion in a fight like this was like a weakness. It wore them down and gave them less of a want or need to keep fighting. It would make the fight slow down and start to drown out, similar like the life that filled the both of them."

"Daniel wanted to just drop everything and walk away because of the fact he was fighting her. He didn't want to kill her and she sure as hell probably didn't want to kill him, but she kept fighting. She was a warrior in a sort,never giving up with what they wanted to do until they finished it. It was almost inspiring in a way. That is, it was until he realized that her goal was to kill him. She never spoke, just like him, and had swung at him causing another scarlet red river get torn open and overflowing to whatever end that it seemed to want to.

But, every good soldier never walked away from their fight. No matter how hard it was to fight them in the first place. If it was home, and they were fighting to preserve their own lives, Daniel would think ‘hell, go for it’.

So, he didn't ask away. He wanted to be a soldier, a fighter a warrior. The axe already wasn't going to do that well, so he figured going to the next weapon he found useful. He clasped his hand around the hilt of the spiked blunt and knew that he couldn't give up."

"These were the few things that he learned about life;
[ one ] life was something people take for granted. someone may think that they'll never die anytime soon or that someone else will never die soon, but they never realize how fast it'll change from that.
[ two ] the sun was something that people often didn't like when it was burning hot and they had no cloud in sight, but without it, life seems almost boring in a way without the light that it gives.
[ three ] everyone's scared to die. it can be blatantly obvious or it can be the slightest of things.
[ four ] family is something you should treasure, because you never know when -if- you're going to see them again.
[ five ] rain is a beautiful piece of art and people often mistake it as something sad or gloomy.
[ six ] love never ends, and love never shows until the other part of that love ends.


[ seven, a personal note ]
sometimes, you need to see the precious things in life like a friend or someone that cares about you.

because you never know when you're going to die.

[ eight ]
you can never try too much.

so, in his fleeting moments of life, he tried to preserve it with one last swing."

"He had a reason of his own that people didn't know; which was having a kid of his own who might not live with a father. It wasn't long before he spoke to her in his irritated and weak voice.

'You say that like you're alone. Like you're the only one who has a reason to fight for home that other people don't understand,' he was obviously flustered by how bad he was losing the fight, but he didn't stop his speech. 'I can assure you on a personal level that you're not alone.'

She wasn't alone in the pitiful of an excuse she had made. But Daniel, not being alone in the misunderstood, was alone. After all, how else did he expect to keep fighting? If he weren't alone, he'd be scared that whoever was alive of his friends was dead at every cannon fire.

He was already prepared for what it would've been like if he survived, but at the current rate of things, he was soon to be wiped away and out of this fight."

- daniel tate, district seven male [ marcellus rhodes 11b arc ] in back to the trees away from the fire


"There was a moment of drawn breaths and stopped hearts. Natalie locked eyes with him and they both felt the same level of desperation, made evident in the fearful but determined glint in their worn gazes. He could see all of Eight standing behind the mighty seamstress; the Square in all its grey glory, the factory workers and their bundled cloths, and lines of parents praying for a victor who could hold her own. If fate was just, she would win long before he stood a chance.

Fate was not just.

The pretty gold of her hair erupted into red and silver. A sickening crack split the bones of her skull like an egg, and an icy coil wrapped around his throat. Eyes wide and jaw slack, he watched her violently drop into pooling blood, voice snatched by every sensation of dread and disbelief in his body. A cannon confirmed that it wasn’t a trick of the eyes – Natalie, the seamstress with a lion’s heart, was dead.

He stood frozen in time, weapon dangling loosely from his fingers."

"Everything was fucked up.

The air felt poisonous, a rancid stench staining the inside of his nose until it fogged the innards of his mind. They were surrounded by oceans of blood that bubbled like water in a pot, and they hissed louder and louder with every step. With one wrong movement either of them could stumble into these pools and melt their own skin off. He could think of no death more horrifying, but the steel glinting in their hands warded off such a foolish thought. They would tear into each other, they would bleed. I could die here. Nothing would prepare him for that agony."

"He claimed not to believe in a God, and he wasn’t sure the girl understood why. 'But then, who will save you?'

'Nobody.'

Justice, Atlas, luck – he had relied on them for so long, and he credited his beating heart to their efforts. Without them, he would’ve died with Stevie among the fire. He would’ve burned to ashes and the Capitol would’ve sent him back in a jar instead of a casket. There was nothing else here to save him but himself. What would a God save him for? What was his life worth? Not more than Natalie’s, or Stevie’s, or Petra’s, or Lucia’s. He had determined that Petra’s life was worth less than his own when he butchered her, but he didn’t really believe that. He was simply performing what was necessary to survive. He knew damn well there was no supreme being to rely on."

"He painted a red smile across her abdomen and blood dribbled out to match their grim surroundings. Jagged rocks threatened them from above and sizzling pools of what he hoped wasn’t human blood hissed everywhere else. The air was hot, humid, and suffocating, burning the odor of iron into his brain. It was organic yet poisonous, a stench that reminded him of deaths in the past and warned him of the deaths to come. He was familiar with death’s shadow, the way it washed the color from someone’s skin and erased the glimmer of livelihood in their eyes. He was familiar with death’s whisper, the way it stole the breath out of someone’s lungs. Now he was familiar with death’s perfume, the iron of oozing blood and putrid, dying flesh.

A pyramid of pale faces were stacked in his conscience. They were all ages, sizes, and genders, most of them taken by sickness. Lucia’s powder blue eyes were the first to stare back at him, the first death he had seen up close and personal. At the time, it seemed that was the worst of it. The love of his life going limp was what left him quiet and bitter for so many years, and now he was having trouble imagining what she looked like. Now it was Percy’s gaping chest and Stevie’s eyes socket staring through him. Now it was the desperation in Petra’s eyes and the determined expression on Natalie’s face that haunted him where he stood. It was their corpses he remembered the strongest."

"'I was happy until I watched my girlfriend die,' he replied, and suddenly he was back in the training center again with Stevie, Atlas, and Justice. Their eyes bore into him as he repeated those dreaded words of his past during a light-hearted game. Leave it to himself and Atlas to make everything grim. 'Now I can’t even tell you what I’m fighting for anymore, because it’s not happiness.'

It was life.

'Maybe there’s still hope for…something.'

And again, he tried to kill her. It would shatter any hope she had left of finding happiness, and he had become a villain for favoring his own life.

Or maybe I’m just fucking human."

"His heart sank because this wasn’t the first time he heard this plea. Patients withering away in their beds like flowers in winter would tug his sleeve and beg him for a sweet release. They were dying anyway, they would always say. Just get it over with. Help me. I don’t want to suffer. I don’t want them to watch me suffer. Just pull the plug. Give me a bottle of pills.

It didn’t hurt any less hearing it now. 'I…I want to go home,' she said, and he wondered what twisted part of her mind imagined death as a home. Or did she believe that a white heaven awaited her? Freedom from hell, a life after life. People wanted to believe there was a paradise after all of this. A place where people didn’t cry, people didn’t bleed, and peace was absolute. A fucking fantasy world, he called it."

- machaon amador, district eight male [ Python ] in all that you will ever be


"So I run. Like the coward I am. I run into the vast darkness until my friend's footsteps are little more than a memory to hold close to an aching heart. I won't ever see them again. Not like this, anyway. Perhaps their silhouettes will be painted into the sky some night- perhaps it will be me looking down at them from that heavenly perch.

I wander until the soles of my feet ache and the stitches upon my broken body throb. And then I sit upon the shore of the acid lake, relieved to find the bodies have been taken away. I'm so fucking tired. The world around me spins and tonight, when I sleep, there will be no man to keep watch. I could wake with a blade through my throat and not even a word to udder in protest.

For the first time since entering the arena, I feel as alone as I did in nine. Sat in an alley with a needle upon my lap, head slumped forward as the world turns into nothing beneath my finger tips. Sat in some random chair in some random house, bottle slipping from between slack fingers and a knife strapped to my hip. Sat in an arena with blood caked to my clothes and not even the heartbeat of another to keep me company. They are all agonizing types lonely, they are everything I have ever known."

"The pain is near unbearable- like nothing I have ever felt before.

Somehow, it's more potent when I am left alone.

If Machaon, if Justice were here there would be a goddamn reason to smile through the throbbing of my skull- to keep on trying for them but I don't care enough now. There's no one to stay strong for and so I spiral, into crimson ink that tastes too much like rotten pennies.

Four is right, there is blood on my hands- enough to turn a river red. There are hopes and dreams- spirits stuck to edges of my hammer. Their screams are turning me inside out, trapping me within my own skull and all I want is to scream.

They sew my lips together.

I never had the right to call myself a good person. "

"'Have you watched your district partner's face light up the sky? Have you lost her yet?' As hard as I try to keep my voice from breaking, I have already shattered. Roger started a chain reaction. Fractures crawl up the apples of my cheeks, down my spine and the pain is near intoxicating. It's all I can think about. All I can bear. My hands are shaking. I can't stop them. I don't try.

'Face it, Roger.' I smile and it splits my face in two. 'No one makes it out of this arena a human. No victor has ever been anything but a monster and a murderer.' I heave my hammer onto my shoulders, holding myself together best I can. And that's not very well. Machaon is a monster. Justice is a monster. It's okay. I never knew them as anything else.

Natalie was a monster. Minos was a monster. There is nothing holy left about us children sat on our hind legs, mouth hung open and ready for scraps to be thrown off the edge of Snow's empire."

"In hindsight, I never stood a chance. Not to defeat him, nor to win these games. The guilt of a thousand lives upon my shoulders would drive me mad before the thorned crown even kissed my skull. I have killed. A man in nine and a girl in this arena. They are here, even now, desperate to drag me right to hell.

'Tell me something.' Another iron tear crawls down my cheek, numbing the pain of his glaive against my throat. 'Will I see her again?' Percy Delacroix, bathed in as many sins as I yet a thousand times stronger. 'When I die, do you think I'll get to see the little girl I couldn't save?' Because she died in my arms, begging for a warmth I could not give her. Her blood is still caked to my shirt, her words to my heart.

It should have been me, in the blood bath. It should have been me who took the killing blow.

'Or will all I ever amount to is another notch in the belt of a detestable man?'"

"It's not a heart that I have grown upon my sleeve, I cannot feel it's beating. It's not a soul, nor the humanity I have lost within this arena suddenly returned. Roger is Death, finally upon me, he is blades shoved through weakened skin. He is my judge, my jury and my executioner. Still, I hesitate.

He wouldn't. Machaon wouldn't. Justice wouldn't. They are men meant to survive, built to last with steel for hearts and I here I stand, soul of ice melting within the shallows of this acid lake.

I didn't mean to kill the girl. I didn't mean do shove my hammer through her skull and yet when she fell all I could feel was relief. That is was her and not Justice. That is was her and not me. Every life I have taken for my own sake was in vain.

Because I hesitate."

"'Promise?' The words are soft, shattering in this blood-stained atmosphere. They crawl down my back like blood, hot and sticky and staining my skin a pale shade of grey. I don't even know if he heard them.

Roger will not die- not today. Perhaps not tomorrow or the day after that. He has what it takes to survive, a soul unburdened by guilt and enough sense not to hesitate to strike a man who killed him. The final page of my story has turned, taking my blood and breath with it. There are still black words to scrawl upon his yellowed parchments.

Petra, Natalie- the souls which I have aided in taking will not welcome me. Not where I'm going. If there was such a thing as Heaven a man like me would be allowed nowhere near it. Not when sin is ink beneath the surface of my skin- gruesome and beautiful and all too hard to ignore.

But to lay down my weapon is to spit on their graves. To tell them that their murder was not a means to an end, an attempt to make it home, but it was for no other reason than to draw the blood of the innocent. And even I am not so much of a monster.

No matter how inhumane I might have become."

- atlas white, district nine male [ ᴥ ] in legends never die