So this is Goodbye (District 6 Tributes)

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When I hear that trumpet sound
I will lay my burdens down
I will lay them deep into the ground
Then I'll know that I am glory bound
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There wasn’t time to have any fear. There wasn’t time to regret. This was real. This was now. In the moments that the words crept from his lips, Cyrus was swept up to the stage to accept his spot in a flurry of motion.

There were flashes of light, there was a scattering of applause, and he could see out into the sea of haunting faces as he spoke his name once again. Cyrus Malloc. His voice cracked as he felt his face twitch in a mixture of fear and adrenaline. He could feel hands on his shoulders as they turned him to get away from the crowd. He looked out to the sea of faces to try and find Naif, but his brother was lost in this ocean of the unnamed, of boys and girls that would become men and women without Cyrus. He began to breathe heavily as he felt himself swept up in the order of the procession. He knew good and well that he would be taken to the Justice Building, that he would get some time with his family to say goodbye.

As his spine tingled and his hairs prickled upwards on his arms, he felt his neck and face grow hot with each step. There had not been a district 6 victor in some time. His chances of victory were small, perhaps infinitely so. He had no combat training, he was barely able to speak to anyone outside of his family, and he knew there would be suspicion of any tribute that volunteered themselves outside of a career district. He tried to calculate odds in his head.

Numbers were the only thing that comforted him, their orderliness neither good nor evil, but he couldn’t put together anything in his trembling, jumbling mess. He tried to stop, to bend over his knees and catch his breath, but he was pushed further forward. He was chattel to the capitol now—perhaps valuable if only for the part he was to play. He was a number, a set of numbers, odds, bets, hopes, desires, wishes…

You are wonderful. You are brave. You are smart. You have a reason to live, you have a reason that you will not die. You will not kill the way the others do. You will not hurt others in malice or rage. You will be okay. You will be safe. You have to be brave, you have to be better, you have to stop shaking. Stop shaking. Stop, stop, stop! You are a tribute, you are yourself… please, please, I’m so scared, please why did I do this, please, please…

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Cyrus took a few quick breaths as he brought his hands to his eyes and wiped away the wetness that dripped down. He rubbed his arm across his nose, and felt a brush from the turquoise bracelet. This was the trinket that held so much value for him because it reminded him to be free. He needed to be free, to escape from this gray void that was district 6. He had seen it on the faces of the other District 6 children: there was no hope to be had here. It was death of another kind to stay here, to keep working as a welder, and to wind up alone and forgotten. He twisted the turquoise in his hand and let out a muffled whimper. He wished he could feel the arms of her around him again—just for that moment when his heart and head were warring with one another.

Please, someone, anyone, lead me the right way. Let me be strong. Let me get through this. I will have my freedom. I will escape this. I will make it out—I will survive. I am a survivor. I am not a boy, I am a man. I am Cyrus Malloc, I am the tribute from district 6. I will not perish—I… I need to be strong. Please, please let me have my dignity.[/color]

The long walk, or rather, to Cyrus the thousands of steps taken seemed heavier with the weight that now sat upon his chest, ended upon facing the miserable stone of the Justice Building. He knew that this would be the hardest part of his journey. He would have to steel himself for what his family would say. Would they say anything at all? Would they even come? The last thing that he needed now was to leave them in misery and anguish. He needed them to be brave for him, even if at that moment he could not be brave for himself. His slow, steady steps up the stone edifice made him take another deep breath. He closed his eyes, searching for something, anything to quell his shaking hands. He grabbed his wrist once again and tightened his expression. Give me strength. He straightened his posture and let out another deep breath.



They would give him five minutes with his family. They had told him this as he sat in a cushioned chair near a window that looked out on the ceremony that had just occurred. People still milled about, and Cyrus tried to count all the peacekeepers to relax himself. Counting had a way of relaxing him even in the darkest of circumstances. As he approached forty-seven, the knob on the doorway turned, and Cyrus stood to face his family.

A tall, well-built man with a five o’clock shadow entered, dressed in his shirt, tie, and slacks. A frail woman with long plaited brown hair and a somber brown dress followed close behind. She looked back to motion to a scared looking teen for him to enter. This was no time for a lack of courage. His mother, father, and brother entered the room but said nothing. As the door closed behind them, Cyrus could only stare down at the floor in front of them.

He felt a pair of arms wrap around him, and the dribble of warm, salty tears splash against his neck. Naif wept into his brother’s shoulder, his freckled face contorted and heaving as he gripped Cyrus. “You have to win, you have to win… please, please Cyrus, please don’t—d-d-don’t. You’re not like all the rest. You’re good Cyrus, you’re really good. You can get through this, you can,[/b]” Naif whimpered out as he touched Cyrus’ chin to make him glance upwards at him. The two brothers locked in a glance, and Cyrus let out a short gasp. “You’re better than all this, these… these stupid f—king games. You’re better than this, you can win, I know you can win…”

Naif had always been the good brother. He had always supported Cyrus, even looked up to him for all his faults. He helped his brother to understand just what people meant, just why girls made eyes at boys, and what slang words were supposed to mean. And they would laugh and giggle at boyish things—because Cyrus still liked to play imaginary games with his younger brother for some time. He still loved to play with their make believe toys, and to play peacekeepers-and-wanders together. And when they had become teens, Cyrus watched his younger brother move forward and mature in a way he still could not—perhaps ever—fully understand.

“I will be okay, Naif. I will come back and we will sit in our beds and laugh and laugh… I will, I promise you,[/b]” Cyrus pushed out, not letting himself get overcome with the anxiety that betrayed his voice. He had nothing but love, but warm wanting for his brother. His brother that his parents cherished. His faithful companion, his better half. He would be saddest of all to leave him.

“Cyrus…” The deep voice of his father drifted off as Naif stepped back to wipe his eyes. Cyrus looked up at him, unmoved. Devon Malloc had expected so much of Cyrus. He had expected a young boy that would be his to play catch with, and someone to teach about the mysteries of women and life. One that he could be proud of for his accomplishments. And instead he had gotten a boy riddled with complexities. His little autistic child that knew nothing of how to speak to him, or anyone. One that was clumsy and aloof. One that liked numbers better than people. He never thought of women—he had barely stopped playing imaginary games before Devon had gotten him a position as a welder. He cleared his throat.

“My boy… you… you…[/b]” Devon wanted to say fool, but stopped himself. He wanted to bash Cyrus’ head in for bringing about this… this travesty of a volunteering. Devon knew his son was not a victor. He wasn’t even fit enough to survive the bloodbath. He was going to fall over his own sword and perish in a pathetic display in front of the whole world. And he would be ashamed. Devon would lose a son—the son he’d wanted so badly that had turned out as a dud. He clenched his fists together and looked up at the ceiling. “F—k! Just… you… Cyrus… oh, Cyrus…[/b]”



Devon had tears in his eyes now, and brought his fist against one of the walls. He had such little time to say anything, and he had yet to form a sentence. He looked to his son, his terrible, beautiful, failed, obnoxious, wonderful, amazing son. His boy. For even in the moments that Cyrus had confused or angered Devon, he still loved him. He was his son. He was not Naif, nor would he ever be. But he did not want to have to say goodbye to his son. He would not bury his son. He would not. Cyrus would be a victor. He had to be.

At last he brought a hand down upon Cyrus’ shoulder and kept his voice from cracking. “I’m proud of you Cyrus. I’m proud of you no matter what happens out there. And when they come after you, you run, Cyrus. You hear me? You don’t f—king stay there to be a target. You’re going to make it out of there… I know you will…[/b]”

Cyrus wrapped his arms around this man—how long had it been since the two had done so?—and as he peered over Devon’s shoulder, saw the eyes of his mother. She was the one that had kept him safe for so long. The one that had loved him, in spite of all the confusion and hurt, of all the joy and laughter. He stepped back from his father and looked to Eloise as he tried to remain expressionless. He had felt his anxiety recede some at the voice of his father, but the wall he had built for himself was crumbling.



“Mama, I have to go away…[/b]” He says as he tiptoes toward her. He wrapped his arms around her tightly and rested a head on her shoulder. He took another breath, and felt the strength he’d had melt. He wept into her shoulder but tried to stay strong. A losing battle for sure, but he wanted her to hear that he loved her. That he needed her to stay strong. That she could hold the family together, even as weak as she was, without him. “Please know I did this for me. That I did this because I… I…[/b]”

His mother stroked his hair and shushed him. Eloise patted him on the back and swung his shoulders back and forth. He had been her first child. He was the one that experienced her inexperience. He had seen them grow from a small apartment to a home. He had struggled and fussed. He had been labeled as different under her watch, and she did all she could for him. All she could, which was never enough. But would it have ever been enough for this boy? No. And she had accepted some time ago that his destiny was outside of her grasp.

A calm had beset her at his volunteering. She should have been weeping like the other mothers of child tributes most likely were. And she would too, at some point in time. Whether it was watching him prepare for the games, or while he was inside of the arena, she would be overcome with emotion and shed tears. But now she had to be his mother. She had to be the woman who gave him all she could, as was her duty. She had to push him and raise him up beyond what he ever thought possible. Maybe he would not be the victor of these games—she could be honest that the careers were profoundly more adept—but she could see him with a coronet around his head. And that was all she needed as comfort.

“You are my brave little boy, Cyrus. You are my sunshine. You are wonderful.[/b]” She said this all as her grip around him grew tighter. She pulled back to look into his face. She smiled at him, despite the dripping of his nose and the wiping of his eyes. Protect him. She would do what she could to see this through. “You are powerful beyond measure Cyrus. You are so wonderful, you make me so proud. Please don’t look at me like that… you know that I love you, Cyrus. I will always, always love you. You are my sunshine, my only sunshine…”

Cyrus heard his mother hum a tune from his childhood and he stopped quivering. He hugged her tightly and finally wiped his face of everything. He could do this. If she could be strong, he could pull himself together. There was no regretting his decision. He fought for them—for himself—for district 6. And as the door opened and their brief time together was cut short, he looked to all of them, saying, “I love you… I love you…[/color][/b]”



As he was moved to the train, he took one last, fleeting look to the place he was leaving forever. The place that held his history and a life unfulfilled. And he looked to his wrist, to the jangling turquoise gift of so long ago, and then to the train platform. He was heading towards a freedom unlike he’d ever known. Whether that meant the sun would shine for him another day, well, he would have to count his blessing each time he opened up his eyes. For now, he would be strong now knowing that he had a chance.

He made his way inside, knowing that the other tribute would be somewhere inside. As he plodded along the corridors, he searched for her and his mentor. He hoped that she would at least be friendly. He knew that the games were a difficult task. Perhaps he would not have to face them entirely alone.

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The train was a world unto itself for Cyrus. The rooms were all done up in elaborate colors, with the finest woods and metals he had ever seen in his life. Here a pine table, a mahogany, a curved bit of steel that had been adorned with semi-precious stones: he was in awe of its splendor. He took some time to run his hands along the smooth walls of the train and to stare out the windows at the landscape that was flashing by him. The drab gray of district six was being replaced by rolling flora and fauna, a world that Cyrus had only seen in books with his mother. Oh, how he wanted to be able to tell her of the things that he was seeing.

He could think of when he would sit in bed with her, and she would tell him about the mysterious animals and shrubs that were outside the district walls. She would show him pictures of beautiful flowers and name them, of vines that would cause itchy red bumps, and little berries that looked delicious but were deadly to the taste. “Poison ivy… that’ll leave you itching for days, Cy!

[/color]” And little Cyrus would soak it all in like a sponge. The one thing that connected him to others, and with his mother, was his love of learning. He was never more mesmorized when she showed him something spectacular that he did not know. He may not have been the best at talking, writing, or playing with others, but he loved to learn.

And now he had to take this to task with the games. He had to stay strong, even with the pang in his stomach as thoughts of his mother flowed through his mind. This was what he had wanted. It was what she wanted for him. He was seeing all that he would never have seen otherwise. He was slowly cracking through the shell that held him, bit by bit. And though he still felt brittle and scared (and hopelessly lost), he could at least marvel at everything this train had to offer. He took a few more steps down the hall and into another compartment.

It was then that he ran smack into the girl that he had been looking for—though he had to say that he had been moving rather slowly—and he backed off for a moment to look her up and down. His usual blank stare remained as he watched Fawn. Surely she didn’t mean to run into me? This wasn’t some form of intimidation she was trying to use against me? He looked into her eyes and listened to her speak, and realized that she was merely looking for their mentor and escort. He shook his head no, and did not say anything. He merely stared at her, his brain still trying to process how he was to say anything to Fawn.

She was the other District Six tribute. In a few short days, they would be together in the arena, and they would have to kill one another. They were obligated to make sure that only one of the two of them remained standing at the end. Cyrus tried to comprehend this, but still struggled now that he was faced with it. He could not kill the girl from his own district. She was rather pleasant looking, after all. And there were so many others that likely were more skilled in battle that could do the job. He reasoned—Cyrus did a lot of reasoning—that perhaps he could get to know her some at the very least.

He had so many questions that bubbled at the surface. Where was she from in the District? Who were her parents? Did she have a big family? Had she trained at all for the games? What was her favorite color? Did she like cake?[/color]. And yet he didn’t move to ask her any of this. He felt the anxiety rise in him again as it always did. He hated talking to anyone, for fear of being seen as slow or stupid. He struggled understanding what anyone felt, and hating saying the wrong thing. Would she make an enemy of me for saying something stupid?[/color]

“Hello. My name is Cyrus Malloc. I haven’t seen anyone else.[/b]” He started with this, which was easy enough. He crossed his arms across his chest and looked at the window, and then to Fawn. “I… I’m not sure where they are…” He stared at her again and blinked. He was so stupid.[/color] Couldn’t he say anything else, anything at all?

“How… are you?[/color]” Cyrus chirped out, as he backed up against a table, nearly knocking over a glass vase. He gasped as he spun around and managed to save the thing from tipping over, though in the process he managed to look like a complete goofball. He stared back at Fawn and sighed. Well, maybe it was best just to be honest with her. He shrugged his shoulders and looked down at the ground. “I don’t know if I’m ready for all this yet. I mean the games! Not talking with you. I’d like to talk with you.[/b]”
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When she spoke again Cyrus stared at her. She seemed to be depressed about their lot, at least, referencing the fact that they had no paddle in a busy moving creek indicated as such. Cyrus chewed his lip. It would help if one of them could be positive about the future, right? Then it wouldn’t feel so painful. Then maybe they might have a shot at showing the rest of the districts that they weren’t determined to be the unnamed dead laying in a pile during the bloodbath on day one. No,

[/color] Cyrus thought as he glanced at Fawn’s pleasant features once again and shrugged his shoulders, As impossible as this may be, I’m going to make sure the both of us get out of the bloodbath alive. At least this I can promise her.[/color]

He felt somewhat silly showing off his ‘reflexes’, considering his clumsiness was what almost knocked over the next-to-priceless vase on the table. He looked around the car again and realized that any object in the room was probably worth more than all the money he had left at home. Again, he wondered what it must have been like for them to live with such lavishness, and for all those in the Districts to be confined as they were. It didn’t make sense to Cyrus, but then again, he had the tendency to overthink things. And his sense of moral integrity was something that often held him back where others were able to wave off such things as foolishness. They would say that was just how things were meant to be.

Before he could get in a word, he heard the call of lunchtime, and realized at last the two of them were to meet their escort and mentor. Cyrus tried to think just who their mentor could be, knowing that their district had not had a winner in quite some time. He followed closely behind Fawn, almost a little too closely, before finally reaching the expansive and lavish dinning car. His mouth watered at the buffet that was laid out before them. He knew his mouth was hanging open at all the things that were available to them—it was not like Cyrus never had a good meal, mind you—and immediately grabbed a plate so that he could better stuff his face.

He was like a child in a candy store. He piled his plate high with sweets, meats, and his all time favorite, mashed potatoes. He took a seat next to Trina, their escort, and placed his napkin into his collar before grabbing his fork and knife. Trina giggled at him as he did so, and as he shoveled some of the mashed potatoes into his mouth, he realized that she was still looking at him. Grabbing her napkin she wiggled it in front of his face and then made a motion to place it into his nap. Cyrus blinked a few times and pulled back from the table some. He felt his face flush as he moved to wipe his mouth and place the napkin in his lap. Right. He had to remember that he was going to be unfamiliar with all these capitolite customs.

Trina chattered on, asking plenty of inane questions and giggling at them. It seemed that every response Cyrus had made her laugh, and pretty soon he stopped responding to any of her questions. He didn’t like to be laughed at. It was the worst thing for Cyrus. He hated for people to think that he was simple or stupid, and every time she laughed it made him retreat further and further into his shell. At last, the smelly, jaundiced man sitting on the end of the table piped in and told her to shut up. Cyrus looked over at what he guessed was his mentor. Here was a man that liked the bottle more than anything else. Sizing him up, Cyrus wondered whether or not he would have anything useful to tell them. That was, of course, until he told them they weren’t going to last.

Good. So everyone thinks we’re going to die quickly.[/color]

And then he heard Fawn chirp in with ’Why don’t you keep your comments to yourself before I beat you with that bottle?’ And he dropped his fork. He knew that it was a bad idea to insult an adult, especially one that might be able to help them survive the games just a little while longer. She gave him a look as she exited, and Cyrus turned to face their mentor again. He laughed and took another swig of his drink before pointing at Cyrus. He continued to eat as the mentor spoke.

“ Y-y-you know w-what (hic) her problem is? She’s just another one of these s-scared little (hic) girls that’s got no chance. So sh-sh-she acts all pissy… bein’ scared of death will do that do yah!” He said as he let out a loud belch. Trina made a face but the mentor didn’t seem to notice. “You know… you don’t look so bad. Kinda strong, and you aren’t crying. Got a good appetite. You know where that’s going to get you?”

Cyrus shook his head.

“ Dead! Dead! Dead, dead, dead, deeeeeeeead!” The mentor stood from his seat waving his arms. “Year after y-year they send me tributes that haven’t the sl-sl-slightest idea of how to fight. And I’m s-supposed to convince p-p-people that you are worth their money? What did you even do in District (hic) six?” He puts his hands on his hips and Cyrus looked down at the table.

“I was a welder…” His voice trails off and Trina’s eyes seem to light up.

“Ooh, he worked with fire and with his hands, that gives me so many ideas for your costume! I just think you’d look splendid in—“ But her attempt to stop the conversation was derailed.

“Oh for f—k’s sake. You bent metal? I’ve got my work cut out for me…” He took another swig. “You’ll probably get stabbed in the back with one of the swords you helped to make, you know that, right?”

Cyrus was gripping the bracelet on his wrist like a madman, and he stood from the table. “I… I… I…” He stammered out his words, the anxiety rising in his chest. His mouth was working faster than his mouth, as usual. “I cut sheet metal! And you’re… you’re supposed to help us! You…[/b]” He stopped, looking to Trina, who was holding a napkin up to her face. “Forget it. I’m going away from here.[/b]” He could hear the snickering from his mentor as he left.



He was shaking when he left the car. He thought he had left the hopelessness in District six, but it seemed to follow him like a cloud. He had his work cut out for him. Though he had wanted his precious freedom, it was obvious that this freedom came at the cost of his hope. Logic took over again as Cyrus placed his hands on a windowpane to look outside. There is no reason for anyone to believe us as winners. We have not had a winner in some time. We are not fighters. We are both sweet and quiet and afraid. They would not think us as winners. But… we can be winners. He grabbed his bracelet and nodded. He could think of her and have hope. She would tell him he was brave.[/color]

He moved down the hallway to see Fawn sitting down on the floor. Thinking that this was completely normal, as Cyrus had never been on a train before, he took a seat beside her. He played with his bracelet on his wrist and said nothing, only looking forward in front of him. At last he decided to speak.

“ You know, he was wrong to say that about us.” Cyrus said as he twisted the turquoise in his hands. “I think I can do this. I bet you can do this too. You are here. And I am here. And I want to do this. I want to survive, and I will do what it takes to survive. I want to be free from District six. And I want to be able to explore.”

He looked at Fawn again and put his hands down on the soft carpet. It really was a lovely place. “What do you want?” He asked this earnestly and simply, not knowing that it was a rather loaded question. “You don’t have to say just yet. But at least I can say… I don’t like that mentor either, and I was happy you said something. You seem pretty brave.[/color]”[/blockquote][/size]

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Cyrus wondered if he’d been wrong to lash out at their mentor. He was the one that was supposed to help them train for the games. They only had a short time to prepare for what was imminent danger, and the two of them had decided to badmouth the one person that was supposed to have all the answers. And Trina, despite her annoying questions, provided the biggest positivity out of anyone Cyrus had ever met. He let out a sigh as he turned to listen to Fawn. He couldn’t help but feel a little bit better that she seemed so similar, and that she seemed to be taking her time to understand Cyrus. Whether or not it was because she was forced to made no difference. For now he was hoping they might actually be friends, as illogical as that was.

“You don’t have to take responsibility for me,

[/color]” Cyrus replied to her comment about giving him trouble in the dining car. He wondered for a moment how much longer they had on the train, and if he’d be able to get in another meal before they got to the capitol. If there was one thing anyone had to know, it was that Cyrus took responsibility for all that happened to him. He wasn’t about to be the victim, at least, not with his spirit as full as it was at the moment. “He just was asking me about who I was, and he was about as nice to me as he was to you. So I decided that if he wasn’t in the mood to help us right now, then it would be better to come here and talk to you.[/b]”

He still wasn’t quite sure what to make of his fellow tribute. She was angry, but then, who wouldn’t be? She had a quiet confidence, even if she had run away from their mentor. He watched her for a moment as she clutched her necklace and mentioned the fact that they weren’t hopeless. No, even if the odds were pretty small, it wasn’t as if they were dead yet. They had just as good of a chance as escaping the bloodbath as any of the non-career districts. And it wasn’t as though they’d yet encountered their competitors, so there was yet to be a threat of hatred or alliances to be formed.

“We just have to figure out a good strategy,[/color]” Cyrus said as he looked down at the carpet again. His hand brushed along in circles, around and around. He hadn’t been aware that he was using the plural first person, as if they were already a team. It just seemed to sprout from him naturally that they would talk about this sort of thing together. He was not, after all, a ruthless tribute that could see only his coronation as victor. Instead, he saw freedom and life after this. He had volunteered to become something else, to finally break out of the world that he was confined to. He never wanted to return to the way things had been and would always have been to him. “I suppose it would be better if I watched the Games more closely when I was at home, though…”

He cocked his head to the side and stared at whatever it was that Fawn was gripping so tightly. He lifted his own token up as it jangled, and then pressed his hand against it. Tatum. He thought of her and closed his eyes. Was she out running in some field somewhere? Did she have enough food to eat?[/color] He turned again to Fawn and pointed.

“Is that your token?[/color]” He said without knowing that perhaps this was a private matter. As good as Cyrus was, he lacked a finesse with personal boundaries. His curiosity often got the better of him, and he had no idea if this was one of those times. Instead he studied her again as he shifted a little bit closer to her on the carpet. As difficult as it was to talk to others, he seemed to be doing surprising well with Fawn. He lifted up his arm to show her, moving his wrist towards her face as a child would. “I’m wearing mine. What’s yours?[/color]”


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Cyrus listened to Fawn and nodded his head along with her. They would have to study their competition to see exactly what they were up against. There would be the natural born killers from the career districts, and Cyrus had no doubt that some of the non-careers would be capable of similar feats. He was still unsure of just how he was going to be able to finish someone off—Cyrus very rarely had ever hurt someone by choice. He knew it was a fact of life that he would have to get over—these were the Games—though he wondered about his ability to forgive himself for killing an innocent human being. It was the hardest part for him, as he supposed it was for anyone, to realize that there would have to be blood on his own hands for him to gain his own freedom.

He remembered watching the games some years ago. He remembered sitting in the room with the screen, the others silent or giving little gasps at the events before them. There was much more excitement around it for others, while Cyrus viewed it more as a curiosity. To him, being an outsider had some naturally. And from what he had been taught, outsiders needed to be destroyed or punished. They didn’t fit into the capitol or in the districts. They all needed to strive for the same things, look the same, and be the same. In the Hunger Games, boys and girls that deviated from the pack were picked off. And so it was with the usual District Sixers—the only one to ever have gotten far was Aesop, but alas, no victory. Cyrus almost wept at this—he’d been proud of his district, a foolish pride to be sure, and called himself stupid after that. He still was reconciling just what the games would mean to him.

As Fawn showed him her locket, he stared at the faces of her family with wonder. “They are very handsome young boys,” Cyrus said in response. He never really knew what to say about people and how they looked. At the very least it gave him something to talk about with Fawn. He managed a smile as he thought about his own brother. “How old are all of them? You know, I have a younger brother named Naif? He’s the best. He’s only fourteen but I feel like he’s so much more mature than that. I promised that when this is over…”

Again, Cyrus felt himself fall into the trap of thinking about after the games. He let himself trail off. After the games.

[/color] Perhaps he was more naïve than he had let on previously. Cyrus just couldn’t shake this want to talk past the games, as if by picturing himself after them would protect him from the extreme anxiety he felt about the games. If he let the anxiety take over him, as it happened from time to time, he would wind up cowering in a corner or running off somewhere. He shook his head and looked down at his own token. He fiddled with the thing as he got it off of his wrist, and held it up for Fawn to see.

“This…” He starts slowly as he twirls the turquoise stone piece in his fingers. He stares at the stone for a moment and blinks. What was there to say? This was his lifeline, his hope, his love, his silliness all bunched up into a piece of twine and some semi-precious stones. He held it closer so that Fawn could see. What could he tell her to make her understand, or anyone for that matter, the girl that had helped to change his life? He supposed he didn’t have to keep it as much of a secret now that the two of them were headed off toward the games. He stared up at Fawn and cleared his throat.

“This is my bracelet. I like to think about it as my inspiration. I… I’ve never been so good at being with people… or having to understand just what people want out of me… I like to make sure I’ve pleased everyone, but I have a tendency to mess up,[/b]” Cyrus started shakily as he continued to play with the bracelet. He clutched it tightly in his hand and looked back to Fawn. “I met someone—her name was Tatum—she was a wonderful girl. She gave this to me after we’d—well she was my teacher. She’s the one that made me realize that if I stayed in district six… well, there was nothing for me there. She gave this to me as a sort of reminder… that I needed to get out and see things for what they were… not just do the same thing over and over.[/b]”

He let out another sigh and brought his knees up to his chest. “I guess it sounds really dumb when I say it like that.” Cyrus stared down at the carpet and chewed his lips. Was it ignoble that he’d done this for his freedom? Or just plain stupid? He clutched his bracelet again to give him strength. He still thought otherwise.[/blockquote][/size]