iron, iron, stick || hespie / ulysses

U L Y S S E S.

Killer arts and crafts. A malevolent switch from a day ago when I wrapped a worn-out and half-chewed shoe up in blacked-out tape. I've got that shoe in mind at the crafting table. In the arena, nothing is a guarantee. That includes our own weapons. They are rather essential to surviving this mess. I scrape the stone at the corner of the table, shaving off the edges to leave a sharp and precise tip with a sturdy handle. It's nothing like the assortment of knives, swords, and axes at the other stations, a presumable promise to exist in the arena. The Gamemakers will strip us bare of materials if they see fit. I'm going to be prepared for anything: that includes knowing how to make something out of nothing.

It's a serene feeling to have, this whole peace and quiet ordeal. Without my grandparents breathing down my neck, I feel more confident sharping the stone and making it at least somewhat acceptable as a weapon. I'd rather have a stone knife to defend myself than throw a backpack over a tribute's head in hopes that it buys me enough time. The handle is probably the biggest problem. Smooth the whole way through, the knife is nothing more than molded clay cut out from stone and refined. Hold it the wrong way and it'll slip out of my grasp just like the mace earlier in the day.

There are a few of us trying our hand at crafting weapons, for better or for worse. Most, I'd presume, for worse. I find it challenging not to stare and compare, worried that as far as durability is concerned, I'll be fighting with a twig while others wield trees. Maybe it wouldn't hurt to ask for tips from others. What's the worst that can happen, they tell me to get lost and they'll see me in hell? Yeah, I've faced that barrage more than once in the past. Break enough rules and people will give up on you, even the parts worth salvaging. The twenty-four of us training here, though, have already been rejected. Ninety-four years of tradeoffs were deemed fair in exchange for preventing nuclear destruction.

Striking a conversation, thankfully, isn't nerve-wracking. Most people in Eleven did not enjoy my company, and I learned to accept that. And accompany them anyway. Sea urchin, bottom feeder. I've always seen it best to talk first and cringe later. And in a place like this, cringing from the awkwardness of each conversation is bound to be given. Take the girl across the room, a Seven stitched across her name. She seems fairly confident with her materials, all of it some form of lumber and wood. She's been here for half the time as I have, yet it looks like whatever she's working on has twice as much structure as my… knife(?) that's tip is still noticeably round.

I slide the weapon down the table and into my hands. I take it over to her station, my metal pedestal screeching against the tiled floor behind me. If I'm not able to get any advice from her, I may be able to get a closer look at what she's done and gain some insight anyway. I clear my throat as the stool comes to a halt beside her at the station. "Can I ask you something? Perfect." I spin my stone weapon on the table. Nonthreateningly, of course. "If I came running at you with this, would you be scared or would you immediately rip my face off? Just curious."

Asking the most serious question in the most nonserious way. In Ulysses fashion, nonetheless.