Pts made public

.:.:.:.:.:.:.
are you ready for another bad poem?
one more off key anthem
let your teeth sink in
.:.:.:.:.:.:.

By this point, Gamemaker Nox was growing quite hungry. She'd been too busy answering loads of pointless questions that morning to eat breakfast—her incompetent team couldn't even think for themselves—and had been looking forward to the extravagant lunch the Gamemaking team always received during training session day. District Eight. It was supposed to come at District Eight. Well, since District Seven was only just about to start, Invidia was more than a little grumpy.

The girl—Siana Felies—walked in without looking at the Gamemakers, without announcing herself; rather, she immediately made her way over to the climbing station. Typical Seven, Nox thought, but did not disapprove because very few other districts ever displayed this skill and it was a welcome change from the long line of fiery weapons that always surfaced during session day. It was interesting at first, watching her climb, but she quickly grew bored and antsy, paying much less attention than she should've. Until she made a misstep and began to dangle far above the floor, an expression of fear on her face that she was trying to hide but that Invidia was an expert at seeing straight through. The head Gamemaker sat up a little straighter in her chair; was she going to fall? But nope, she regained her balance and began moving again.

In another bout of typical District Seven, the tribute decided she would next throw some axes. Nox yawned, tapping her foot impatiently and watching the girl try and execute some fancy tricks. She wasn't bad; she had a pretty good handle on the weapon, though she never actually hit right on target. But it simply wasn't interesting or skillful enough to catch her attention. More work and you could be a threat, kid, Invidia thought, as Siana thanked them and made her way out of the room. But when you throw an axe and miss? You're going to have to go get it if you want another shot, and good luck doing that without a knife in your back. After some deliberation, she jotted down a 6 for this tribute. There was potential, yes, but she needed to become more deadly if she was going to stand a chance.

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[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: ffffff; padding: 10 10 10 10 px; width: 376px; height: 32px;]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: ffffff; padding: 10 10 10 10 px; width: 15px;]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: ffffff; border-width: 3px 3px 3px 3px; border-color:#D2CDD1; border-style:double; padding: 10 10 10 10 px; width: 300px;] Everyone makes mistakes. It’s what they’ve told me since the beginning of time, the teachers and the students and the parents and the adults who are there but not quite, the ones that sometimes forget my name but share my home. They say it when a plate shatters against the hard floor, when a cup of water spills out over yards and yards of ragged fabric, when a seam on a dress pops out and suddenly everyone’s scrambling around to find a needle and thread. It’s equal parts comforting and cruel. After all, how nice is it to know that no matter what you do, no matter how hard you try, you still won’t be perfect, not every moment of every day for the rest of your life? That’s what I used to think before coming here, to the Capitol with it’s calculated moves and it’s perfect Games with twenty-four pieces, first lined up in pairs and then breaking off into singles or twos or threes or fours. Strangers coming together and working as a whole for as long as it takes for them to slit one another’s throats. That the nature of this particular exercise, what you learn from lessons that can’t be written down in a textbook. Now I think that those imperfections are what makes this place a little less like a graveyard and more like a real place. Which is how I end up scribbling in an absolute panic, recording everything captured like birds inside of my juvenile head and letting the feathers spill out with ink as fine as the gold-trimmed stationary balanced precariously in my lap. Avian creatures with broken wings, off-key coos. The ledgers and margins are filled with formulas and equations, compounds that will start fires faster than any kind of flint and which elements can be found in what plant, how to extract them, how to make them useful. I can’t articulate these things in words, can’t ramble on like I can with a pen in my hand. I’m no writer - just a curious girl with too many questions and too much time to slave over books. Now I’ve run out of time and only gotten more questions for everything that’s changed. I record every imperfection I’ve noticed in these past few weeks. The times that a plate of food has come out just on one side of too hot or too cold, steaming a bit too much into my face or wafting the scent of something exotic and completely drowning the sweetness of something almost like honey. Every time the elevator has taken more or less than the customary time to drop me off at the sixth floor. Every flicker of lights, too quick to figure out if it’s just a visual illusion or a split second of panic draining the generators and power lines powered by Ripred-knows how many lives in District 3. The words and tallies and mistakes flood over one page to the next, my hand cramping and the side of my palm smudging black along the ivory pages until there’s a small pile teetering on the edge of my knee, detailing how even the Capitol is a place like any other. That it’s still bound by the laws of science, the nature of the world. I can breathe a little easier for knowing this. My lungs fill a bit more rhythmically now, even as I wait for the boy from District 5 to be done with his private session, for someone to call the name I’ve signed with a flourish on the corner of the last page of my disillusionment. I clutch to these loose-leaf pages now, crinkling the paper that’s far lovelier and thicker than anything I’ve seen before, my sweating fingers just barely blurring the not-quite dry ink scrawled along the cream. I had no intentions for this report, but when my name is finally called, I don’t leave them on my chair. I take them with me, like a safety blanket or a teddy bear, and just as a child does to his once favourite-toy, I toss it on the table after my footsteps have stopped echoing on the Training Centre floor. I trust that the Gamemakers can read, or will take some curiosity in what this girl from District 6 has just discarded on their place settings. Maybe they think I just intended to give them all paper cuts. Either way, it’s all I have to say to them before I retreat to the stage in which I’ll really be judged. They can’t possibly care for my observations, for my curiosity. They’ll think it’s insensible to let so much time go to waste analyzing what happens in their world, but I’m sure not one of them has noticed everything written on those pages. They’ll have full control over everything that happens to me for the rest of my life, assuming that I don’t win. To think, for just five seconds, I will have known more about their smoke-and-mirrors Utopia than they do themselves is enough to make me proud to be from a District that’s bound to lose. I stay away from weapons and paints, skim right over racks of silver-tipped spears and titanium swords. I’ve looked at them for hours before, and my lips move without my consent, tongue forming around the formulas that determine how far a bow will go based on wind speeds and trajectories and the weight of the holder. The paints are a mystery to me, the dyes colourful secrets that won’t tell me how they work together to turn human skin into the bark on a tree or the sedimentary layers of stone. But I know the chemicals that are put in each and every one, and again I find my mouth moving even if my gaze doesn’t stray from the only thing that might prove to be any help to me in this room. I can’t leave my report and hope for anything good. Not when they probably won’t care. Science labs and observational skills don’t let you survive unless you’re waiting to see the reaction of two chemicals which will likely end in an explosion, and then it’s just pure luck that will get you out of the lab before compounds bubble over and your nose is full of the acrid stench of metal getting eaten away by examinable forces. The first aid station was my obvious choice, but it was too easy, and I quickly found my morale sinking as I realized that the only impressive things I could do was see the world for what it is, and not for how everyone wanted me to see it. With a sigh, I settle at the plants station and go through the tests in record timing. It’s only due to memorization that I finish swiping plants into their places beside edible or medicinal or poisonous, sorting them with a sort of mechanical precision. It’s just another exam, another thing to score high on, and I’ve always taken great pleasure in making sure that my marks were high. It’s the only thing I’ve ever had, really, when my entire life would have been dictated by the grades that I would have gotten had I not been taken away from home and thrown into a sort of tailspin that will most likely kill me. If nothing else, I finish in record timing, but I really only wanted to do one thing: make sure that the Gamemakers had nothing to do but read what I had written, listen to me for just a few seconds of their lives when I knew I’d never get the chance to be heard again. Their Game is only so effective if you can see the chinks in the armour, where they can go wrong. I know now that no matter how well they plan, how perfectly it seems like everything is running for them, there has to be an error somewhere. And that’s how someone will win. They’ll see the weak spot and shatter the entire thing. Maybe it will be this year, maybe it won’t be for a hundred years, but for as long as mistakes are made, there will always be an edge to fray. A weak link. Only now do I realize how reckless I’ve been. So I do what I know I’ll be doing for most of the Hunger Games while I prove myself useless at combat and making friends: I flee from the Training Centre and hope that by not introducing myself, not saying a word, not even looking the Gamemakers in the eye for longer than I’ve absolutely had to I’ve ruined my chances of them even picking up the papers that I left, that I’ll just be a one or a two. Unimpressive. Forgettable. By the time I’ve stopped running, I’m already in the elevator and praying that I won’t have to explain to anyone what I’ve done. ...But mistakes are very dangerous little things.

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are you ready for another bad poem?
one more off key anthem
let your teeth sink in
.:.:.:.:.:.:.

While even the lower district tributes mostly chose to display their competence—or lack thereof—with a certain weapon in their private sessions, there were always those who deviated from the norm to surprise the Gamemakers. These in particular were the ones Gamemaker Nox enjoyed most; though more often than not they received lower scores than those competitors who showed battle skills, they were by far the most entertaining ones to watch. Or experience, in the case of Ivana Vox, female tribute of District Six, because in her session that day, there wasn't very much to actually see.

She was swift and deadly accurate with the plant sorting machine, but that wasn't what Invidia was paying attention to during this session. Instead, her focus was trained on the stack of papers that the girl had reached up and deposited on the Gamemakers' table. It wasn't every day that tributes made them a delivery—she couldn't remember the last time it had happened, in fact—so the head Gamemaker couldn't help but be slightly interested. A few of her colleagues bent in to read as well, but she shooed them away. "I'm in charge," she reminded them in a tsk tsk sort of voice, and disgruntled, they sat back and allowed her to scan the sheets of looseleaf unbothered.

Nox's eyes widened as she realized what exactly was going on here. Ivana Vox had spent all of training week recording every single imperfection she had been able to spot during her time in the Capitol. Her food was too cold. The elevator was too slow. The lights flickered. Over and over again, observations of the tiniest faults in this place that they all took so much care to display as perfect. Invidia frowned, biting her lip with one sharp tooth; on one hand, this girl's attention to detail was exquisite; she'd noticed everything, and that would be a useful skill in the arena to some extent, at least. But on the other… well, Invidia was not the sort to approve of reminders of imperfection. They were her Games, after all, and she'd gone to such great pains to prove that she was competent enough to handle running them. The last thing she needed was some snarky tribute reminding her of where she'd failed. Her pride itched to give this girl no higher than a three, but eventually she wrote in a 5 beside Ivana Vox's name. If nothing else, it was for her skill with the plants. You better watch yourself, girl. You aren't going to beat me at my own game; no one can.

Matilde"Scout"Watson

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are you ready for another bad poem?
one more off key anthem
let your teeth sink in
.:.:.:.:.:.:.

Matilde Watson of District Eleven reminded Gamemaker Nox vaguely of a small, angry little puppy. As she stalked into the training gym to begin her session, the tiny blonde girl sported an indignant scowl; Invidia observed her carefully over the last bites of her plate of food. She introduced herself as not Matilde, but Scout—the head gamemaker snickered at the nickname and jotted it down, making a mental note to actually use it. Perhaps not as good as "twig warrior"—she was still snickering over that—but it was still up there.

Then all of the sudden the little girl clenched her fists and closed her eyes, concentrating hard on something in her own mind. Invidia tapped her foot impatiently on the ground below the table; she'd spent the entire day in this seat, there were only two more tributes left, and she was eager to be done as fast as possible. Just as she was about to bark an order at the tribute to continue, for Ripred's sake, the tiny bottle rocket jumped a dummy and began to beat it up with every inch of strength she could possibly muster. The frenzied anger radiating off of her was almost palpable—what did you think about just then, little girl?—and then she reached for a blade and started using that instead. Then as soon as it had begun, she was done; Scout backed away from the maimed dummy, breathing hard. After pulling herself together, she slowly retreated from the room.

Gamemaker Nox frowned, debating what to do with this girl. She certainly had a lot of power, yes, and her anger translated to violence, which was always good in the Games. However, she'd beat up an inanimate dummy—there was no way she'd ever be able to replicate that on a living, breathing, fighting human much larger than her. At last she etched a 6 beside Matilde's name. "But who knows, Scout? Maybe you'll surprise us."

[bg=000000][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=width,500,true] But it was not your fault but mine And it was your heart on the line I really fucked it up this time Didn't I, my dear? Okay, admittedly I am not the best at most things in this arena. The leg has rendered me practically useless when it comes to any close range combat: It drags behind me like some kind of log and I guess the trainer sensed my frustration because she came up to be before we were done for the day, telling me to use my disability to my advantage. Truth be told I don't really know what she means. It's hard to walk as it is, let alone run (and I don't want to picture myself running towards that Golden Horn any time soon) but to use it to my advantage? The only thing I can think of is not to put too much pressure on it, but then I'd be hopping around on one leg and I mean that'd just look silly, right? Warrick, my district mentor, told me to play to your strengths; that the Gamemakers are looking to see what promises you have, that I have to play down my weaknesses, that I have to make them see that I can be a valuable token in their Games. That's all they want right? A show? I'm just one of their actors, galloping on and then being dragged away, the red pooling on the stage floor as they call for the next rising star to be ushered in from stage right. I'd better give them a really good performance then. However, it's easier said than done and now it's like two-thirty in the morning and I'm pacing back and forth in my room (with its too soft blankets and they even gave us a soft stuffed animal as some sick attempt to be kind) because I don't know how I can be of any use to them whatsoever. I'm only good at ranged weapons (the slingshot was fun to use to be honest but I'd rather be shooting windows not people) and tying knots (see dad, I learned something from our lessons). Maybe if I could draw someone to death - or scare them to death with some kind of creepy drawing, maybe put up a canvas between two trees and paint the background and some headless tribute kind of thing or some weird muttation would do the trick but of course it wouldn't what am I thinking. But artists are known for their creativity, their ability to create from nothing, and I must be able to use that because after all I'm at least part artist (I'm mostly just composed of awkward laughter). And that scaring someone to death doesn't even seem that bad, honestly; I'd just have to find a way to do it... And now I'm here great am I seriously going through with this I'm going through with this aren't I and I mean I have nothing better to do because who wants to be that tribute who walks around and shoots arrows at things and misses or slices a dummy's head off but shows no promise anywhere else? I need to be noticed, I need to be brave and proud and confident and let the world know that I am better than they think I am, just watch. I mean the chances of me going home are pretty slim to begin with, but maybe, just maybe, I can make Mum and Dad and Eye proud by making it through the Bloodbath, and maybe those sponsorships will help to get me out of Bloodbath fodder and into Day 2 Deaths. Ick. Alright Ewe, you can do this. Breathe in, Out. That's good. Okay ready? They're calling your name. It's time to go. You'll be fine, they all believe in you, Eye and Mum and Dad, they're all waiting for you to come home. Show them you've tried. The ground echoes and scrapes as I make my way into the room, so much more vast and cold than yesterday, when the trainers were there and there was clashing and booming and so much more noise and it was almost comforting, almost like a gym class except I was always the kid who was picked last so not that comforting. The Gamemakers sit on a raised platform, sipping champagne or chattering or nibbling on bits of toast from the breakfast beforehand (or maybe they just brought it home, I wouldn't really know). If this plan is to work I have no time to sit there and talk to them so I give a quick wave and scamper off as fast as I can, making my way to the Improvisational Weapons station, grabbing wire and dry dye from the Camouflage station, matches and sticks and leaves. With an armful of stuff I head towards one of the demo areas, where the rubber trees stand tall and ominous, the bushes scratchy and far too green to be realistic. This trap has to be prepared quickly, before my test subjects can know what's happening, so I turn my back to the Gamemakers and to the avoxes at the far end of the room, sliding back and forth, winding the wire to and fro, lighting the wood with my match (okay I know how to make a fire and I doubt that the Gamemakers aren't going to be so impressed by it that I need to show them it. It's just a fire.) When it's done and the fire's been burning for at least five minutes (I spent a bunch of the time pacing back and forth, calculating in my head, checking for ways this plan could fail. I'm sure there are many.), I walk over to an avox, whispering in her ear, beckoning her to walk the plank. I tie a cloth over her eyes, making sure she can't see me, can't see the scenery, can't see the event that's about to befall her and I mean of course this is going to look ridiculous but is there any other option I mean really. When she's in position, I snap my fingers once, and she removes the blindfold, looking blankly ahead at the rubber trees before her, covered by a nice lawn of leaves and I'm nowhere to be found. She walks forwards, sarcastically looking back and forth when she hears a loud boom coming from her right as a tin of red dye explodes from the pressure from the fire, sending shards of tin everywhere as she ducks and runs the other way, to the left. Yet suddenly another magenta dye explodes at her feet and she's ducking this way and that, racing to and fro, running away from the exploding dyes that send red, so much red, spiraling up to the sky. The Gamemakers can see her panicked expression, just clearing the smoke that's chasing her like a dragon. And then suddenly she's down, her ankle caught on the trip wire laid before her. She scrambles up to run again, only to be tackled as I jump out of my hiding position in the bushes and leap for her, shoving her on her back with a knife brandished to her neck, my legs straddling her torso, my hand pushing down on her shoulder. We're both panting, she's crying a little. I can feel her heart racing so fast, her fight or flight reactions in full throttle, the fear from the tin and the powder that's in her eyes and the cold silver that lies on her neck. I hope this is enough, this has to be enough. The ground's covered in specks of ruby and primrose and peony and some small metal shards that glint in the light. While some sick minded people might want to call this a macabre form of beauty, it's not beautiful though, never could be to me. The scene ends, the curtains fall, and the buzzer rings and I rise, leaving the avox girl curled up on the floor, walking out of the door with my head held high (and hopefully my score held even higher. Kinda doubt it though)

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.:.:.:.:.:.:.
are you ready for another bad poem?
one more off key anthem
let your teeth sink in
.:.:.:.:.:.:.

More than once since Reaping day, Gamemaker Nox had wished that Ewe Saw were more impressive. District Four could use a good, strong Career victor; it had been many years since their last, since for the past decade or so they'd been overshadowed with Districts One, Two, and, perish the thought, even Twelve. But she supposed their Career training wasn't what it used to be; not only was the boy this year unimpressive, he was disabled. Why had a stronger child not volunteered in his place? So when Ewe walked in that morning, Invidia sipped her champagne and mused over her very low expectations; what could a tribute with a gimp leg ever do to impress her?

He began to build a contraption with tools from the improvisational weapons station; Nox watched closely, knowing that something like this could go either way. He started a fire near the climbing station full of fake trees, and the head Gamemaker began to tap her foot impatiently. Get on with it, cripple, I haven't got all day. She raised her eyebrows as he recruited an avox to display his trap; not unheard of, but certainly not all that common. The avox was blindfolded and placed in a strategic location. Then she began walking.

It happened fast; there was a boom, and the pressure from the burning flames caused what looked like a tin of red dye to explode, and then another, and then another. A chain of pressurized explosions peppered the area, and the avox ran every which way in fear, still blindfolded. Invidia watched in delight, enthralled by this display, and then finally the avox's ankle got stuck in a bit of wire. The next moment, Ewe Saw was on top of her, holding a knife at her throat. For a moment, Invidia thought he was actually going to do it—was she supposed to stop him, or something?—but then as the buzzer sounded he slacked off and stood up once again.

Ewe made his way slowly out of the room, leaving a shaking avox and his mess behind him; there was a brilliant spattering of all different shades of red across the floor. Once he was gone, Invidia began to clap. "Well, I don't know about the rest of you, but I quite enjoyed that," she mused, shocked that the District Four boy had actually managed to impress her. She wrote down an 8 beside his name. It teetered on the edge of a higher score, but he was still a cripple, after all.

Today, I am the loyal marionette, pulled harshly by neck and shoulder as part of a convoluted shtick to prove that I am one of the worthy ones. A bullshit tale to weave to the stalwart symbolic knight who sits at the head of the arena for this years games. The principal of the school, so to speak. Whose greatest indulgence came from strapping our lilliputian figures to the strings in a manipulation to her every desire. A line has been drawn in the figurative sand. The moment has come to hand our manipulator her wooden bars. The audiences response had swelled to a roar and our vapid eyes faithfully stare into the crowd. It was time to give the gamemakers what they have been asking for all along. Compliant, consenting, still, docile, obedience. For obedience in the persuasion of assured destruction is the most tender way to fall.

My wooden joints ache with disuse and so they must whip me into place. I stand in a straight line with twenty-four of my companions, attentive to every instruction, every command. We are all ears as they instruct us in their wisdom. We'll have thirty minutes, but if we go over that's okay. Just try not to take too long, they don't have all day.

This score could mean everything, or it could mean nothing. It could either assure our survival or it could secure our death. It was up to us to use this time wisely, for the wealthy pockets were watching us. Frankly, it made my blood simmer. Who did they think they were, forcing us to perform like we were some sort of sick, distorted monkeys?

I already knew that answer. We were their monkeys. We were their tributes.

I thought briefly of this moment for him. Did Cassius feel afraid? I would never know what he dared to do, who he dared himself to become. "He probably had a cigarette in his mouth the whole time," I whisper to myself, but nobody hears me. They were too consumed by their own tricks and trades to pay me any mind. I wonder about them too. Were they worthy enough for yet another game?

What about Storm, or Shadow? Were they going to cry today? I had a feeling they might throw up. They never seemed to have the strongest stomachs, that much was clear. A little fire, a little smoke, a little scare and they had lost it this week. It almost made me want to laugh. To taunt them one last time, for their weaknesses. Yet, I couldn't do that to them, not now. Let them dance for their last banana, for that final hope.

We were all about to die anyway.

The first tribute was called and I was left with my thoughts. I had not made friends with my district partner. He was a boy from the training center back home who had always left little impression on me. We merely nodded to each other and did our own thing as the half hour passed.

The hall continued to empty, and soon district one was gone. Gone.
Gone.
Gone.

What had they done?

I watched Kyle depart with hungry eyes, and my arms began to shake as I thought about what I was about to do. I wondered how they would respond. Immediately? Or would they wait for the arena to seek their revenge?

Only time would tell,

and that time was ticking ever closer.

...and we were clothed in darkness.

I felt grateful for my exploration of the center throughout the week. I understood where everything was, and it came in handy at a moment like this.

A low chuckle caught in my throat as I tip-toed to the nearest table. Useless items, all of them. So I gathered them in my arms and poured them in a line along the floor. I began to hiccup as I tried to hold in my laughter, hic-cup, don't laugh, hic-cup, don't breath.

Wood and metal, paint and rubble, bows and knives. It all went into the pile. I left out only what I knew I'd need, strapping things to my back or pulling them out to what would soon become my stage. Real laughter escaped my lips, uncontrollably. I couldn't help it, and I didn't really care. Let them question my judgement. I wasn't here to hide from them, I was just working up to my grand finale.

I began to tell a story as I worked.

"There once was a ghoul,
who haunted the dreams,
of those who were marked to die.

He liked to whisper things, you see.
He told them secrets, yes, but he also told them lies."

"Do you remember this ghoul I was telling you about only a moment ago?" I ask them sweetly and approach the dummies, my boots echoing across the floor

"He had a name. An identity, so to speak.
He had a purpose too.
He wanted to make these people destroy each other because of their fears.

Yet what was the purpose behind this?
Alas, I came here with a story, dear friends.
So just sit back, relax, and enjoy the show!"

I clap my hands together then drag them across my belt.

"The first fear," I announce with a solemn tone, my face still hidden by the towering rise of wildfire. It seems as if the shadow upon the wall itself is speaking, and it demands their attention. "Comes from Arbor Halt, a boy of only fifteen. He did not want to own up to what he had done. Once a loyal boy, gentle and even compassionate. But the ghoul pierced his integrity and painted pictures of betrayal into the depths of his soul. In the end, he turned even on those who asked for nothing more than a moment of protection. He didn't want to give up the comfort the demons had promised to him, so he took his allies out and became an instrument of their destruction."

"The second fear comes from a little girl of only twelve. Who did not want to be alone. Unlike her mentor from the previous games, she clung to her ally until the very last fight. They didn't want to give up on each other, yet fear led them to that slaughter! Aranica shot her darts and swung her club and she took her kill."

"The third fear comes from a girl who did not want to murder love. The ghoul begged her to change her mind, to destroy her beloved so that nothing could hold her back from her true glory. Kill me! I'm here, he said! Kill me. I'm sorry. I'm sorry for everything. I'm sorry for breaking your only request with this demand, but kill me, please. The ghoul destroyed this girl with her only fear, he took her out and she dug her sword into the flesh of her last enemy. Not unlike the sword that caused her beloved to fall, so willingly, so quickly. But at what cost?"

"The fourth, inflicted with the fear of help. Heron rejected her last bit of humanity when she attacked Katie in favor of her own life. She just wanted to go home, for the ghoul had bewitched her. Isn't that what we all want at the end of the day? Oh, but how little people to whom ghoul grants that wish."

"The fifth, afraid of the future. She didn't want to die, and she didn't want to kill, but she had to! The ghoul forced her to, didn't he? Isn't that what you want us to think?"

"The sixth, afraid of the memories. Driven forward by his loyalty he slayed his final brother with ferocity reserved for what only could be an arena. An apology echoed across his lips, one last regret, and he too was taken ashore, to victory."

"The seventh, afraid he would lose his final victory. Oh, and the ghoul let him realize that fear, did he not? Snatched it right from his pretty hands. Drove him mad with it. Julian sliced the head of his deceased opponent right off his neck without a second thought, just to get that final chance, that last hurrah. If only it had meant anything, for that death had already been stolen."

"The eighth, driven to fear almost anything. Pushed beyond his limit, so far that he doesn't even recognize himself anymore. Lost. A murderer of his own loved ones, of his own friends. They declared him king of the castle, did they not? But what is a king without a kingdom?"

"The ninth, afraid of his image. He wanted to be their perfect pawn, but that never was as easy as the cameras seemed to let it portray. The girl from one, or heck, even the boy from nine rose more readily to the challenge and struck the chords that reverberated within the crowd. They were the popular ones, yet they were the first to die, weren't they? Why do you think that is? Why does the ghoul sometimes pick those who seem unworthy?"

"The tenth, oh what a sight she was! Afraid of the ordinary, of all things. She brought both reality and wonder into the arena, shattering anything that ever held the dream of normalcy between its palms. For what fun could a victor of little ambition bring to a world already clothed in black?"

"The eleventh, afraid of fire. A funny fear, if you ask me. A fear both used and wasted, one that brought both death and life. Yet it brought her victory in the end. Its funny how much our fears can change us."

"Did they mean to gain so much from death? From taking the lives from another human being just so they could live another meaningless year upon this barren land? Is that what fear drove them to?"

My hand grazes my waste again, but for what? My story pauses and I stare at the flickering forms upon the wall. Thirteen in total, including myself. I grab a length of fabric, a handkerchief really, and tie it across my face.

I work better in the dark anyway,
and I need no light for this.

I spring to action, my body becoming a series of steps as I draw out my dagger and coat it in tar and flame. Starting with the last, I announce their names and repeat the blows that ended each life.

"Yaa, stabbed in bicep. Dead. River, stabbed in bicep. Dead. Funny how history repeats itself. Wednesdae, sliced on calf. Dead. Fitz, sliced on calf. Dead. History really seems to work in twos. Reyes, stabbed himself in his own heart. Dead. Aesop, degutted. Dead. Razor, deep gash on bicep. Dead. Tabekas, deep gash on back of head. Dead. Dru, bruised femur. Dead. Jared, deep gash on back of head. Dead."

"All dead, all faded into the pages of history. But what about the victors? What about their fears? Are they truly living?"

I swing my body around and ignore the last dummy, for now.

.:.:.:.:.:.:.
are you ready for another bad poem?
one more off key anthem
let your teeth sink in
.:.:.:.:.:.:.

Beatrice Birch just looked like she was going to cause trouble. She had a mysterious, devious look about her, that girl from District Two, sister of a bloodbath victim in the 63rd Hunger Games two years previous. Would she amount to something, unlike her brother? Perhaps—she seemed to have a harder countenance. But already, Gamemaker Nox did not like the look of her. In fact, she did not like her at all. And her private training session would only validate this.

Frankly, Invidia had been unaware that it were even possible for someone to talk that much. From the moment she walked angrily into the gym her mouth was going, at first telling cryptic stories as she piled various training tools along the ground. Then all the sudden—and Invidia had almost known what she was about to do before she even did it—she set them all ablaze, rendering useless many important gadgets that were difficult to replace. "Insolent girl!" Nox cried, slamming her fist on the table before her, but Beatrice was already going on and on again, too busy speaking to hear the head Gamemaker's frustrations. She performed a sort-of puppet show with the dummies, telling a chilling tale about the paths each victor had taken to victory. That's all very well, but your storytelling is not going to save you from a torturous, painful death. I myself will make sure of it.

At the conclusion of her show she brutally maimed each dummy with a sword, leaving only one of the eleven that represented victors untouched. At this point Invidia was already devising a clever death to force upon this awful excuse for a tribute, but then it only got worse. She began speaking to—more like insulting—Nox directly, and the Gamemaker pierced her with a signature death glare the entire duration of her pointless rant. You will pay. You will most certainly pay. Then suddenly it was over; she dropped her sword and walked from the room, her mouth shut for the first time since she'd come in.

Every gamemaker in the lounge muttered their utmost disapproval as soon as Beatrice was gone. The one was already written down beside her name—she'd never seen a tribute so stupid, and would've given a zero if it had any precedent—but then Invidia slowed, realizing what this would mean. Giving a one attracted far too much attention; sponsors, audiences, and other tributes would know that something peculiar had happened in that gym, and they would be too intrigued; she needed to make Beatrice disappear, to make her entirely unremarkable. Coming to a conclusion, she erased the first number and penciled in a 3. That would do the trick. "Oh, you will die. I don't yet know how or when, but I can be particularly creative." Nox forced her fists to come unclenched and directed an avox to replace the burned items at once. "And it most certainly will hurt."

.:.:.:.:.:.:.
are you ready for another bad poem?
one more off key anthem
let your teeth sink in
.:.:.:.:.:.:.

She had much lower expectations for the Careers this year, mainly because they were all so small and young. In a typical Games, children reaped at this age would have been volunteered for in a heartbeat. But obviously that wasn't an option in the 65th Quell. Kyle Jones was somewhat larger than his other Career counterparts, but it was certainly nothing that would give him a huge advantage. She was curious to see what a Career not even halfway through his training would have to offer.

Immediately after walking into the gym, he began to beat up a dummy with his bare hands. He had interesting nerve, that was for sure; even the burliest of Careers usually chose a weapon to aid him. But the issue was that in the arena, the tribute with the blade would win; there was no doubt about it. It didn't matter how strong you were, unless you were able to sneak up behind your opponent and snap their neck, which undoubtedly no one in these Games would be capable of. The tribute with the weapon won. So even as Kyle managed to send the dummy flying backwards with a thrust kick—not an entirely unremarkable feat—Gamemaker Nox was left relatively unconvinced of his survival skills. "Watch your back, kid—you try that in the arena and you might swing around to see a knife at your throat." She wrote a 6 down in his slot.