the year of the 69th {Murdoch/Eugene}

These beds are rock-hard. They're the kind of matresses that give you chronic back pain after a few months of sleeping on them - worlds away from the soft memory foam spreads in the training complex. I had better sleeps on the streets of Twelve. I guess if push comes to shove, I can always lie on the floor. Can't beat a solid bit of concrete - it's reliable, and you always know what you're getting at least.

"Murdoch Fenn."

That's my name.

The fat blonde from earlier comes waddling over to my bunk with his chest puffed out and his game-face on. I glance up from my daze with deep black eyes and listen to the words that he spent the last ten-minutes building the confidence to say.

"Not enough money or fame in second-hand killing of children, huh? Or did the Capitol drop you for something hotter?"

His voice is annoying. Kind of whiny and childish. I dislike him already. I'm surprised the fat clumsy fuck managed to stumble his way through the first game without getting shot. Still, everyone loves an underdog.

I lie slumped in my bunk, my black tracksuit blazer rolled up as a pillow behind my head, one arm resting on my beer belly and the other picking at a stain below the collar of my white tee, a small red smudge of someone else's blood above the big 010 on my chest.

"Do I really look like a man looking for money or fame?" I ask. That's funny, because I absolutely do to everyone else, but this creep knows who I am. Who I really am.

"I don't get recognised a lot." I say with a bemused smile on my lips, but it quickly vanishes in the silence that follows.

"Am I supposed to know who you are, or something?" I chuckle.