High Striker {Mac One-Shot}

Mackenzie "Mac" Stone

It's been a long week for us in the big top.

All shows put on hold until further notice because the ringleader is... indisposed. That's how somebody put it, but I think that's dumb. I'm pretty sure its pretty obvious that Cricket is in the arena, and has been for a while now. Why not just come out and say it? I don't get people some times. At any rate, today is a big day. There's only four tributes left in the arena. Two careers. One of them ours. Like every day before, everyone from the ringmaster to the carnies is gathered in front a screen. Someone had the bright idea to use a projector the other day and so now the broadcast is all across the inside of the tent. It makes Cricket seem larger than life. Which is dumb. She, like the rest of us, already is.

We are a family. Perhaps a dysfunctional one, but one nonetheless. Most of us have parents, or a place to go home to; as if we ever would. What ties us together is what sets us apart. And I'm not sure how many of us prefer the company of those that aren't more than normal. I don't. I've heard the gossip around the district and I know what they say. I know that some people think Cricket is a disgrace to the mantle of career. I know that they are envious. As for us? Its hard to keep secrets in a group as time knit as this. And it is known that Cricket keeps company with bones. Not the dead kind. But the kind that stares with unfeeling dead eyes. If you believe the rumors, they might not be all that dead after all. I don't know. Not my place to ask.

We all deal with the threat of loss in our own way. I find solace in breaking logs. Sometimes with an ax, sometimes with my fists. The repetitive movement is soothing because it doesn't change. No matter how hard I hit it, it breaks. The way emotions do. I don't know how I feel. I've not been faced with loss, and for sure not the loss of a little sister. I don't like this, but I know that she'll bring honor to the district and to herself. As if she could do anything less. Still, there's something downright unsettling about seeing our bendy babe bleed.

The fight boils down. District six loses both of its tributes in quick succession. One falls to River. The other to Cricket. A hush of anticipation falls over the crowd. We know that we are about to witness something great. The end of a dream, or the fulfillment of one. Who among us has not craved that spotlight, not just because of what our district expects, but because of the performance that we could give. The performance that she's been giving. Her and River exchange swings and words, and a mournful coo erupts from some corner of the tent. It's dramatic, knowing that Cricket's final opposition is also a mother.

But the hammer falls.

Its incredible. Majestic in its own way. A tribute becoming a victor is always a spectacular event in of itself. And we in this circus know spectacular. The screen fades to black. Its jarring. But then it kicks in again with an instant replay. I see some people giving a standing ovation. Hoots and cheers from every corner. Dancing. I have been standing guard by the tent flap the entire time. I do not like chairs. Bones slips past me into the night and I nod slightly as he vanishes like a specter. I don't know if he saw me. Its hard not to miss a six foot eight woman, but when you're used to the sight, it it doesn't dazzle you quite the same way. I hope he is happy. Everyone must celebrate in their own way. That's just how it is.

I watch as the commentators begin to spew their nonsense, gushing about the sixty-third addition to the ranks of the hallowed victors. She received a twelve, one says. Nice to see another career take the crown says another. I fold my arms across each other and stalk over to the popcorn machine that someone left running for this momentous occasion. I down a couple handfuls in as many seconds as it takes to get them. One of the multi-colored narrators is talking about how unorthodox she is, about how she doesn't have the skill set you'd expect from a career. That she doesn't exactly fit the mold set down by Topaz or Julian. But I think of another victor. One I watched win when I was a young girl of twelve. One I looked up to. One that inspired me.

Blind victors don't fit the mold.

So no, she's not ordinary.

But when has a victor been anything but extraordinary?

Most people think she's a freak.

But even a freak can be someones hero.