[Day 3] Foil Semi-Finals: Hammerfell-Alezander vs. Keller

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Considering their notoriety throughout the Career circles of Panem, this might be the first time I've faced a Hammerfell but it almost certainly won't be the last. This uniform has become my shell for the last three days as I ducked and weaved my way through two competition rounds already; when I looked at my white-clothed form in the mirror before the tournament I thought it made me look a little beefier than my true form. On my opponent, it looks more like a hulking suit of armour. I'm sure people wouldn't call me a coward if I admitted this opponent intimidated me more than the last two. Nevertheless, I surely won't let it get to me - not when there's now this much at stake.

I love the architecture of the Olympic stadium. Its sleek beams and arching skeletal girders strike the perfect discord with its savage purpose; not simply an arena for sporting prowess, but a way for the country's citizens to choose which way to place their bets. The spectators and competitors alike sit inside a giant altar to the Capitol's power. The question is which of us are idols, and which are sacrifices.

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In my head a beat begins to accelerate, and my heart trips over itself to catch up. I shuffle my feet in time, finding secure footing on the soft stadium ground. Soon, I will be tired; but soon this contest will be over and I'll be flying forwards and up the table, leaving the competition behind me like ripples after a ship. For now, my body is wound right like a spring, ready to launch itself into a flurry of attacks. 

In the previous rounds of contest, I was fighting simply to win - who isn't? But now; now I'm fighting for that energy, the thrill, that hot, blood-like taste in between my teeth. This fight it, I think, turning me into something I've always shunned, but something I now cannot resist. Like all true Careers are at heart, these fights are turning me into a savage. 

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As the tones indicating our hits on each other continue to sing back and forth, in competition but with my notes always having the advantage of quantity, I stop seeing this Hammerfell boy as a Career clothed in white and instead imagine a rising monster which surges towards me in bursts. My face is hot with determination and my mind is working overtime on my vision. The single foil multiplies, becoming a fierce set of claws which I duck away from earnestly as they swish menacingly past me. His whole form appears to be bathed in smoke, tendrils of it obscuring the unimagined form from my sight. I begin to think of my own body as that of a silver-armoured knight, but when I begin to feel the weight of the idea on my very shoulders, I change the image to that of a winged hero, lighter than air and as fast as lightning.

Every good adventure story has a battle between good and evil. Sometimes the lines between the two are blurred by fate or circumstance, but by the end, every character can easily be put in either camp. Although in this moment I am certain that I am the power of justice, and my opponent the human form of all things malicious and miserable, could it not easily be the other way around - to him, or to anyone? Could I not be the captor and this monster, only misunderstood perhaps, my prisoner? Could my foil be a baton with which I show no mercy, and the beast's long claws too thin to do anything but caress a precious treasure, anyway?

I chase the thoughts away with the reassurance that good and evil don't matter in these small moments - and even if I am the oppressor, that's exactly what this bloodthirsty population wants, anyway. So let me give them what they want. Let me show them blood.

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When I reach to strike again, an audible shout comes from my mouth. It signals that all the force of my strength is behind this blow, and also all my determination to succeed. I hope that it manages to somehow make this hulking figure more afraid of the anonymous waif that dances in front of him, but if I can't make him scared of me then I'll settle for wary. He may still be the bear, but I am the lynx, circling and darting with no need to feed on its victim but with every desire to still assert its dominance. And, not to forget, have a little fun.

How do I feel? Strong, certainly, and resistant to being thrown off by the lunges that the Hammerfell dodged away from last time I went on the attack. The increase in his points have been steady but I still hold my lead. Even if the boy doesn't think so. it's clear to me, as the person watching him intently, that his movements are utterly predictable. If I can maintain the slow progress I have kept, as I, the lynx, circle the dull bear and confuse him, playing a waiting game as I know it's better not to provoke his strength, then there's nothing that can stop me.

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If only I could lift this damn mask up for a second and wipe away the sweat that pools in the crevice of my chin and around the corners of my nose. The skin there tingles irritatingly and I feel myself inevitably losing focus. The gap between my opponent and me is closing fast and there's still too many points left for me to win this all at once. It seems my savage determination was a passing surge of heat, not a new personality for me to take on. However, I suppose in a way it is the latter - when the energy of rivalry begins to surge in me, against someone I know perhaps I cannot beat, I suddenly gain some magnificent power. A certain hatred eggs me on and gives me the power I need to win.

I am reminded of how I was as a teenager, how every competition I entered was a joke; a bit of fun. I wish I could go back to my teenage self and inspire her with the knowledge that one day it is the seriousness of fighting that will give her her energy, and that she should start to embrace it. With only one year left of my Hunger Games career, I do wish I had been able to harness this strength earlier, but this competition, so close to the end of my Golden Years, is enough as a starting block. I won't despair at the past when the present holds so much potential for my viciousness. 

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