[Day 3] Javelin Throw

He recognized two names in three among the group of people competing.Besides his own name, the ones he recognized were Johnwayne and Krearns, relatives of past tributes and they'd obviously have all eyes watching them like a hawk - who wouldn't be watching the relatives of Dan the Scorpion and Someith Krearns? They were both badasses of their games, mad fighters who choked death and told him 'No' time and time again. So, it'd be natural that Bruce Johnwayne, Crayola (the fuck?) Krearns, and Nevah Krearns would be the hearts of this entire performance. He didn't mind, at least he wouldn't have that much of an impact if he did as shitty as he had done before.

The male warmed up, stretching his arms and legs, remembering his javelin training at the centre and having some idea of what to do when he got his hands on the three weapons. When he got called up, he did what he was here to do, throw the damned javelins.

One.
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Two.
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Three.
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She’d had to stare when she saw she was competing against a johnwayne. One of the few names from another career district that she could respect, even if she didn’t like them very much. Other than that, there were two Kreans, one of whom she now knew. But this was her niche. This was the weapon she trained with. If she didn’t place well in this event, she was going to have to cut a bitch and start training twice as hard as she already did. As she waited for her turn to come, she looked at the one opponent that she’d talked with and gave her a nod of confirmation. “Hey, Cray-oh-la. Remember what I said.” She crowed with a wink and a challenging grin.“My name. Above yours.” With that parting remark hanging in the air, Katrina strode forward and hurled the javelins with every intention of placing first.

Throw 1
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Throw 2
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Throw 3
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shiloh ;

Bang bang shot, like a pistol, calliber shots in rib cages and cheek bones -- "play fair, cunt," Shiloh never knew the words. Broken, beat, busted, folded along every side they could find; paper can only be folded eight times. One, his ribs, two, his eyes, three, shins -- it continued like the ten early stages of depression. Over sleeping, over eating, inability to sleep, the slowing down of time, d i s s o c i a t i o n-

Misanthrope.

He always knew the word, he always felt and tasted and spit in the dirt with blood -- it was in his veins. Bred into him like brown hair;

'A person who dislikes humankind and avoids human society.'

It's boring, hating yourself and hating everything around you - tiring, oh tiring. A numbness, he held the pistol in his hand, biting into his finger tips with the numbing of his blood flow - he clenched with a death grip.

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