♖ Happy Ratmas Kiah ♖

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=width,570,true][bg=2E2C2D] he never knew what i did for him

1

The first thing they teach you when you're training to become a Gamemaker is self-discipline. You cannot let personal feelings and experiences effect your decision making when overseeing the Games. They liked to drill that into our heads, made us think like calculative machinery, and nothing more. Of course, we're rewarded for creativity and individual brilliance, but still we're not allowed to let emotions effect our work. Not at all.

I can remember a young man who was barely out of his teens before he was thrust into the competitive industry of Gamemaking. He was such a bright little spark, so creative and clever. He scored a near-perfect 96% in Tribute Psychology and broke the record for fastest resolution of a randomly generated Tribute crisis in the institution's history. He was so scrawny and thin, but clever and witty nonetheless. He had big-framed spectacles that took up most his face, and scraggly blonde hair that was unmanageably greasy. He was raw and full of potential...

Now he's on the wrong side of thirty. The unkempt hair has been cut short, and the freckles have faded somewhat. He's bulked up, maybe too much. The dry wit has evaporated, leaving behind a tired, less-than passionate man with a desire for something bigger. I sit in the conference room, wishing that the Games would come quicker. The year goes by so slowly, and although preparation starts as soon as the previous Games end, there's never anything that comes close to the thrill of live Gamemaking.

I twiddle my ball-point pen, trying to balance it on my finger. The point of equilibrium seems impossible to find, and every time I let go of the pen with my other hand, it drops left, or right, onto the table. This irritates Semantha, who keeps shooting me sideways glances. As our Head Gamemaker continues to talk about her plans for the 64th Games, my interest flickers somewhat. Domiduca Copperview is a talented architect, and likes to structure her Games with incredible precision. I suppose her attention to detail and wide-scope vision are the reasons why she is in the position she is, today. I can't help but admire her, but at the same time I despise her for pushing us so hard. We're all under a lot of pressure to perform, but no one is as much as her.

I push my thumb down against the ball of the pen, bruising my thumb blue with ink. My eyes linger on Semantha for a few seconds, and then Domiduca, before back to the desk again. Sem, Dom, Desk. Sem, Dom, Desk. It's always the same - Counting the minutes and waiting for the Games to start. Waiting for the fun.
"Am I boring you, Coel?" Dom asks, her eyes drilling into mine. I glance up quickly, letting my pen drop to the table. The slideshow behind her displays a graph of some sort, and a few Muttations from the previous Games. I see the distinct outline of a Spitting Raptor and grimace. Just looking at the infamous creatures makes my skin crawl. Muttations have never been an area I have taken much interest in.

"Perhaps you would like to put forward a suggestion? I'm not overly fond of these maggot things..." Dom pauses, turning to her adviser with a questionable pout, "What did you call them?" She asks.
He glances up from his tablet with an alert expression, "Erm, Corpse Nibblers, Boss..." He pushes his large framed spectacles further up his nose.
Domiduca considers this, the idea of giant slug/maggots playing around in the back of her mind, but still her eyes trail to me, waiting for me to make a better suggestion. I sigh, sitting upright. Muttations are dirty and unpredictable. I thought that Dom of all people would understand the art of planning, but Mutts have the capability to ruin even the best of laid plans.

"Sloths...?" I say, the corner of my mouth twitching in a half-smile. A few chuckles come from the other end of the table and I hear Torn Cascade whispering something to his buddies with a wry grin on his face. I try to ignore him, clearing my throat and continuing with my half-idea.
"Basically we make them really slow, and really heavy..." More chuckles, "Stick them up trees, wait for tributes to wander below, and..." I use my finger to illustrate a falling motion, "Crack."

"I like it." Dom smiles, and the laughs at the other end of the table are silenced. If anything, she's approved my idea to stop Torn and his chums from getting carried away. Torn Cascade has been after Domiduca's job for years.
"Torn, get working on some prototypes!" She says, gathering up papers and standing up. We all follow suit, grabbing briefcases and tablets, and leaving our seats.

Torn gives me a sideways glare as he leaves the room, and I feel it heavy on my chest. Ain't no rivalry like a Gamemaker rivalry.

2

"Well, someone has to die in the Bloodbath," Dom shrugs, scribbling down a three in her notes. I see the words hesitant, slow, afraid and weak, among others. Mikhail Ivashkov did not impress in his Personal Training Session. With the introduction of Tar as a common resource, the boy from Six did what many others had done, and covered his weapon in tar, lighting it with a match. He took far too long to do it, however, and would have been dead long before he could even strike a match. For someone of his physical build and age, I would have thought that Ivashkov was more capable, but it was evident that he has no experience or confidence, at all.

I almost pity him. I don't know what's going through his head, only that he is fairly sure that he will die. That's a good thing, I've always thought. Fear keeps you alive. Those stupid Careers who tell you that they aren't afraid of death are fools, and often get themselves killed with reckless decisions. Domiduca was right to give him such a low number, but I do see potential in this kid, for sure.

"Did you see the girl from Four?" Torn Cascade pops a chocolate truffle into his wide mouth and chews slowly. I look up from my seat at the man who towers over me. Torn is well built. Slim, but athletic nonetheless. His cheekbones are high and his lips fat, like a fish. His eyes are synthetically enhanced to look glossed and polished. His hair is a fiery red, contrasting from his jet black eyebrows and moustache. I do not like Torn Cascade, he makes me feel insignificant, even though we have the same job, pay and responsibility.

"Personally, I think she'll win!" His voice is like black licorice, and his breath is sweet and sickly. He almost smiles at me, which is unnerving. I shift in my seat, looking over at my notes on Locust Lovelace.
"Traps are all very well against training dummies, but I doubt she'll have the time or patience to lay out something like this in the arena..." I say, turning a page. Torn's eyes drink up my notes. I'm half tempted to not let him read them, but I almost want to impress him.
"Her emotions will get the better of her. She is... Feisty," I explain, "This Mikhail boy is afraid, yes, but he doesn't let that control him. See how he tried to overcome his fear." I grin, but Torn does not.

"You honestly think that Locust Lovelace, a Career from Four, has less of a chance than this petty excuse for a Tribute?" He asks me rhetorically, "You're an optimist, Coel Leadbitter, that's your problem!" He turns away briskly and returns to his gang of misfit Gamemakers. I twiddle my thumbs, staring out at the training center before me. They will bring in the next Tribute soon. I look at my notes once more and smirk. An optimist huh? I know potential when I see it, and I'll prove Torn Cascade wrong. The boy from Six will go further than the girl from Four.

3

It's raining in the Capitol. It doesn't often do that in our glorious city. Fingers of water run down the panes of glass that box us in our transparent prisons. From the dry safety of our offices, we can see the shimmering beauty of the Capitol transformed into something new. A world of water drowns the landscape in a drab grey, masking the radiance and colour of our great city in a heavy wash of pitter patter and spray. It's almost like we are underwater, and we are trapped in a high-pressured container. My head is aching already, and the Bloodbath hasn't even started yet.

This day is one of greatest days to be a Gamemaker, but with the anticipation also comes pressure. The weight on my shoulders - on everyone's shoulders - is massive. We can't afford to make mistakes, not in the opening moments of the Games where all of Panem will be watching. A mistake at this level of Gamemaking will not only cost you your job, but your entire lifestyle. You'd be stripped of all ranks and titles, thrown out into the streets and left to fend for yourself. No one would ever hire you again, not anywhere. There are some people in the room who have never done this before, and there are some who have been doing it for decades, but there is not one person who is relaxed. Well, except maybe Torn.

Today my rival wears a padded white shirt, just like me. We all wear the same uniform, but for some reason Torn Cascade's outfit seems brighter than everyone else's. I've been avoiding him all day, ducking behind groups of younger Gamemakers or making conversation with Sementha whenever I see him approaching. I've even left the room and gone downstairs to 'check the circuitry', just to avoid him. He's become very interested in me ever since our run-in during the Personal Training Sessions. He's like an eel. I don't like him and I don't intend to let him get to me, not today of all days.

"Stations, please!" Domiduca's voice is law, and everyone finds their seats immediately. Torn is four seats to the right of me, whilst Semantha is directly to my left. Dom stands in the middle, the maestro of our little theatre. I stare down at my controls, the blue surface blinking back at me. Oh, I have missed this control panel. My heart rate slows as I rest my hands on the touch-pad-interface and twist, bringing up the menu. It scans my fingerprints, a little padlock icon turning green and allowing me access. I tap into my saved files and bring up my agenda for Day One of the 64th Hunger Games. Today I will be maintaining the forcefield levels throughout. It's a dull affair but the pressure isn't on me as much as others, thankfully.

I pop up my notes and drag the icon to one side, double tapping the desktop and bringing up the forcefield controls. Across the room, Darnell brings the Tributes up their respective tubes, whilst Earnest gets ready to start the countdown. Dom waits patiently, staring at the dozens of monitors that blink back at her.
"Forcefield at a stable level." I report, dragging the window to one side and glancing to Torn. The reptilian Gamemaker has his eyes locked on his own monitor. What he is up to, I do not know.

Torn is a Muttations expert. He helped design most of the creatures in the 64th Arena, and countless before, too. He's also got an appetite for destruction. He masterminded the hurricane that ripped apart the 55th Arena, ten years ago. He was just a boy back then, barely out of his teens. Was I so different? Ambition often leads to disaster.

I open a window on my monitor, fixing the camera on Mikhail Ivashkov.
"You honestly think that Locust Lovelace, a Career from Four, has less of a chance than this petty excuse for a Tribute?"

Torn's words are stuck in my head. I know potential when I see it. Mikhail looks more confident than he did in the Training Center. I suppose in the opening moments of the Games, you have to be confident, else you're a dead man.

"Alright, start the countdown..." Dom says, folding her arms and keeping a close eye on the Cornucopia. I'm sweating, even though the Bloodbath needs little supervision. We don't want too much death, as that will mean a short Games, but similarly we don't want too few deaths, as people will get bored. I suppose we have to put our faith in the Tributes and hope for a good Bloodbath. I keep one eye on the countdown, which is just passing thirty, and one eye on Mikhail. Is he smiling? His eyes are locked on someone, and so I move the camera to try and see who, but it's out of range. I crease my brow, confused as to why the boy from Six would be smiling at such a time.

"Let the Games begin!" Dom raises her hands as the countdown crashes down to zero and the tributes rush towards each other. I exhale deeply, staring at the forcefield energy levels and waiting for the chaos at the Cornucopia to cease, so that the real games can begin.

4

"Coffee?" Semantha's soft palms press gently into my shoulders. I swipe my stylus over the 3D hologram of bamboo and tap a few leaves, watching them fizz out of existence. Gardening in the Arena is often overlooked, but it's something I love. Call it a hobby. It won't effect how the Tributes perform, but I like the aesthetics of the Games. The minor details.
"I can't right now," I stop, zooming in on a rock not too far from the patch of bamboo I was trimming and scrubbing away at the moss on the side of it with my stylus, "but give me ten minutes, and I'll be with you."

We're into the second day of the Games, and eight are dead. I wish I was more actively involved, but I'm sat scrubbing moss whilst other Gamemakers are editing the live environment of the Tributes. Alliances are being pushed together through subtle mapping and blocking techniques, forcing heavy clashes between Tributes. Even Torn is busy with the Macromantulas. I see him across the room, making them more aggressive, or increasing their muscle density, as the fights go on. I glance towards the main monitor to see Mikhail Ivashkov clashing with a giant arachnid. I grunt, dropping my stylus back into it's holder and getting up. I really could do with a coffee.

"How're the kids?" I ask, blowing the surface of my drink so that it will cool quicker. Semantha smiles, sipping at hers, which is already cool enough to drink.
"Little Artum has just started school, which is great considering how much she was struggling last year," I listen closely, trying to take interest, but there's a spider playing in the back of my head. I can't shake the thought of Mikhail, the thought of Torn laughing at me when the Mutt tears the boy from Six apart.

"Hannan is... Well, he's just Hannan. The boy is nothing but trouble-" Her voice is full of life and enthusiasm, but the smile I return is false and generic. I glance over my shoulder as she goes on to talk about her son's mishaps at his private school. Torn's face is the picture of glee. He nudges one of his buddies and makes an inaudible joke, to which they both laugh. My eyes fix on Mikhail's screen. I bite my bottom lip as I see him struggle with the giant spider.

"I'm considering sending Artum to a different school, just to be on the safe side." She goes on, and all the while Torn Cascade is turning up the aggression of the spider. All the while he is killing Mikhail Ivashkov. The injustice inside me burns. Torn enjoys making people suffer, and he has a superiority complex that makes him take preference over Career Tributes. I won't stand for it. I won't.

"She's such a bright spark. I'm hoping that she'll go into Gamemaking too, especia-"
"Hold that thought." I turn on my heel and briskly walk back to my desk.
"Hey! Coel!" She calls after me, but I'm already tapping frantically at my controls. I swipe away useless pop ups about vegetation and bring up the Muttations panel. I hit Active Muttations and select the Macromantula that is killing Mikhail. Of course, only Torn hsa the access codes to the spider's data structure. I open the file and delve deeper, going into the primitive coding of the beast. I try to break it down into its purest state, code from the old world. I once imported a load of pre-war computers from District Nine, just so I could learn to handle that formatting if I ever came across it. I've got experience with this kind of code, whereas Torn and the others are used to a much more modern interface. That is my advantage.

It isn't long before I've cracked it, and I've granted myself access.
"Coel, I was talking to you!" Semantha folds her arms and leans on the panel next to me. Her eyes drink up the code on my screen and it turns her pale. Her voice shrivels up to a harsh whisper.
"Hey! That's illegal!" She pushes my shoulder roughly, "You're gonna get yourself fired, Coel!"
"Just shut up for a second, will ya'?" I snap back, trying not to take my eyes off of the control panel. I turn the aggression of the spider down as far as I can, before it's too late. I look up, and Mikhail slices the leg off of the Muttation.

It's not over. The aggression bar shoots up again, no doubt Torn is remedying the error on his side. This time he locks it at 87%, and there's nothing I can do to lower it again. The spider bites Mikhail's leg.
"Shit."
Poison. Of course, these Mutts are poisonous. I see the realization on Mikhail's face, and he hesitates. It's enough for the spider to land a crucial blow. The Macromantula lunges forwards, and Mikhail swings low. The beast goes for the boy's neck, but his swing is too low to stop the bite. Instinctively I jab a finger at the muscle density bar and drag it all the way up. The creature's mass is it's own downfall, as it falls short in it's leap, and Mikhail's slash takes its head off.

Semantha gasps, throwing both hands over her face. Torn's laughter stops dead as he sees what has happened. His fat lips protrude from his face in an unnatural way, yet still I can tell that his expression is one of pure malice. I pull out of the program, deleting any evidence that I was ever there. After deleting the last of the files, I lean back in my chair and close my eyes. My heart racing against my chest, adrenaline rushes through my body. I feel scared, but for some unexplainable reason, I am elated. I may have just done something very illegal.

5

Dom has planned a feast. She says that it will most likely be tomorrow. The Tributes are thinning out fast, and tensions between alliances are reaching breaking point. There has never been a better time to split them up, so she claims, and I'm not one to question her judgement. She is Head Gamemaker, after all, and she's in that position to make these kind of decisions.

Ever since I hacked into Torn's Muttations panel, I've been lying low, trying not to draw too much attention to myself. He doesn't suspect that I was involved, and Semantha hasn't told anyone either, but still it's better to be cautious. He knows that something is going on, but he's oblivious to what or why. Henderwick told me he went to Domiduca to report a bug in the system, and she waved away his complaints without so much as a minor investigation. Everyone knows the system is flawless (but that isn't to say it can't be altered, a little).

I twist my fingertips on the interactive surface of my control panel, bringing up a series of commands. I select gradient, dragging my finger horizontally to flatten a slight incline smooth once more.
"You can't keep him alive forever..." The stink of licorice hangs in the air around me, filling my lungs and chest with a heavy dread. Torn Cascade's looming presence is enough to make me squirm. I bite my lower lip, returning his gaze with a dark frown of my own. How can he know? How can he possibly know?
"The Marcomantula was one thing, but to humiliate me a second time with the Aracnobats?" His finger pokes me hard on the shoulder.
"Hey!" I stand up quickly, forcing him to take a step back.

How the hell does he know about the Macromantula, and what is he talking about with regards to the Aracnobats? Sure, I was involved with the spider, but the Muttations from two days ago were nothing to do with me.
"I know you're involved, Leadbitter!" He points aggressively at me again, "Don't deny it!"
"You better drop that finger, or I'll snap it off, asshole!" I stand my ground. The years have not been as kind to me as they have to Torn Cascade, but I'm bigger than him. Fatter, you mean? He is convinced that I'm involved, but I can't figure out for the life of me why? I was so careful.

"The first thing they teach you when you're training to become a Gamemaker is self-discipline. Or did you forget that, Coel?" His face lunges forward angrily, and I take a step back instinctively.
"You're obsessed with the idea of Mikhail Ivashkov winning, aren't you?" He snaps, and everyone in the room has stopped to watch. In that moment of distraction, the Games are left totally unattended for a fraction of a second, and that does not go unnoticed.

"WHAT IS GOING ON?" Domidica booms, "GET BACK TO WORK!"
The hum of voices cuts dead, replaced by the bleeping of machines and cheerful bleeps of buttons being pressed. My eyes are firmly locked on Torn's. His are like diamonds - Genetically engineered to shimmer and shine, but to me they look like slimy fish eyes. Despite the intensity of the encounter, and the aggression displayed by Torn in what is usually a peaceful work environment, we are not the dominant force. Dom waits for us to break eye contact, knowing that we will both turn to her when we are done. As soon as we do, she motions for us to follow her into her office, downstairs. Great.

As headstrong as Torn Cascade is, and as reactionary as I am, we are not idiots. Domiduca has the power to kick us out on the streets, rendering us unhirable. I have never undermined Dom's authority, and even though Torn has been after her job for years, neither has he. We both respect Dom, and so we both come quietly to her office.

The Head Gamemaker looks stressed. I never see her sat down, and even now she paces her minimalist office impatiently, her hands folded across her chest. I feel like a schoolkid who has gotten into a fight, and now I've been sent to the Principal. Torn does not look as guilty as me. He holds himself in a confident manner, but his face is still and neutral, unlike my twitching, agitated expression.

"I'm not stupid, Coel," She begins, not even offering us a seat or a refreshment, "I have cameras around the Headquarters, as soon as I heard about what you did, I looked over the footage."
My heart sinks. Cold hard evidence is impossible to disprove. I can always pretend I didn't do it, but what would be the point? We all know I went against the rules by cheating the interface and tampering with Torn's control panel.
"Quite frankly, I'm disappointed in you Coel, I expected better from someone I trust..." She says, almost sympathetically. Torn smiles, which is a mistake, because Dom catches him smiling and turns her attention to him instead.
"Don't think you're innocent in all of this, Torn!" She says in a harsher tone than she used on me, "You know full-well that we don't put Muttations at 100% aggression. It's unrealistic and unfair. I said 80% cap, and you went well past that on numerous occasions!"

I feel like I should be the one smiling, now. I'm not the only one to break the rules, it seems. I knew Torn had the aggression past 80%, but I didn't think he'd do anything as stupid as to put it all the way up to 100%. He must have really wanted Ivashkov dead. I relax a little, knowing that I'm not the focus of Dom's anger.
"You've both put your own emotions before logic, and for that I have decided to suspend you both for the duration of these Games, without pay."
"WHAT?" Torn's hands slam down on the desk, "You're off your fucking head, woman!"
"Dom, that does seem a little extreme..." I reinforce, hoping that she'll withdraw it. Neither Torn nor I can afford to go the remainder of this year without being paid. We have extravagant lifestyles that will crash if not maintained.

"My decision is final. You will both come in tomorrow, and we will settle this issue with Mikhail Ivashkov." She pours herself a drink, "Now, get out."

6

I still have no idea what Torn meant when he accused me of hacking into the Aracnobats. Dom has footage of me altering the Macromantula's genetic code, but there's nothing I did wrong on Day Three. Did he just use my previous conviction as an excuse for his flop of a performance as Muttations Gamemaker on Day Three? Most likely. I've also come to the conclusion that Semantha told Torn Cascade about my illegal activities. Sem is as close to Torn as she is to me, and she was the only other person who knew about it. It only makes sense. Naturally, I've been ignoring her ever since I came to this conclusion.

Torn and I have been forced to come in to work for Day Six. We have been told that we will not be working, and instead we will be watching. I'll be utterly powerless as Mikhail Ivashkov is left to fight for himself. I suppose I have to trust him. Trust that he'll learned how to fight and how to kill. He's a beacon of hope, not just for me but for District Six. The shining example of an underdog. President Snow hates underdogs - That's public knowledge, and so all of us Gamemakers are taught to hate underdogs... All of us, but me. Maybe that's what possessed me to make such a stupid decision - I haven't been brainwashed.

We're made to sit at our desks, in our usual uniforms - like nothing has even happened. I look down at my control panel, and with the a touch of the interactive surface, a big red padlock flashes up, lighting the whole panel red. I sigh, immobilized and powerless. All I can do is sit and watch the Games unfold. A spectator.

Dom is already talking to Torn, just out of my earshot. I try to ignore their conversation, but the blank expression on Torn's face draws me in. There is no snide smile on his face, nor is there anger in his eyes. He is dead faced, and that makes me curious. I want to escape from this place. I want to undo all the horrible mistakes I've made in the past few days. I want to go back to changing the sizes of pebbles and altering the shade of green on particular leaves. I want to be a small fish in a big pond, rather than be out of the pond completely. I want all of this to go away so badly that it hangs heavy on my chest, because deep down I know it can't just go away. I have to face the consequences of my own actions.

Domiduca approaches me now. Her face is harsher than usual, with less make-up. I can tell she's not in a good mood if she's made an effort to look pissed off. I look up from my locked control panel with unease. I think I already know what she is going to say. She's going to make me watch as she punishes me, by killing Mikhail. Why else would she make me come here during my suspension? As if Domiduca can read my thoughts, she addresses the subject.
"I'm not going to kill him. That is unfair on the boy." She raises her eyebrows, and the weight on my chest feels a tad lighter. I hadn't expected that, but I suppose it makes sense. If she acted against Mikhail Ivashkov because she was angry at a Gamemaker, would that make her any different to me? I let my personal grudge effect my judgement, and she isn't about to do the same. So why bring me here?

"I'm giving you and Torn another chance." She says quietly, with a stroke of shame on her face. Relief flushes through me, and all the tension in my body relaxes.
"You're both conflicted, and you need to prove to me that you won't let your emotions effect your work ever again. So, you will both watch the Games today, and if I see so much as a smile, a grimace or an ounce of empathy on either of your faces, you'll be out of here in a flash." This takes me aback. So she's testing our ability to control ourselves? She wants us to be unbiased and unattached from the Tributes of the Games. I can understand why, but surely this is too childish. It's like the game you play as a child, where you're not aloud to smile whilst other people make funny faces at you. It's ridiculous.

So, we watch. Torn and I watch as the Tributes wake from their broken sleep. The survivors of the feast are few and far between, scattered around the arena. Dom was right: The feast would break all alliances. It's every man/woman for themselves. I watch Locust trundle through the Arena, trying to make the most despite her horrific burns. I watch her grimace and grunt as her scorched flesh plays in the back of her mind. I am emotionless, without mercy for the suffering girl from Four. Is that what Domiduca wants? Does she want us to be ruthless and harsh, like she is? I have too much passion for that. I have too much life in me to ignore the pain of others. I've always been a man of instinct, and it's got me to where I am today - Working in the Games. I'm one of the best in the business, but apparently there is weakness in my range of emotions. I'd say that was one of my strengths.

I persevere though, for the sake of keeping my job. I play Dom's game. Torn is more attached to Locust Lovelace than I am. He told me that he thought she would win, all that time ago in the Training Center. It feels like months since that day, but in truth it was only last week. Torn's judgement was clouded by his superiority complex. Did I really do all of this to prove him wrong? Was it all to show him that someone from Six could go further than a Career? I find it hard to believe that I could be so petty. So unprofessional.

My heart drops as Locust and Mikhail come face to face, weapons drawn. This is it. Domiduca knew this would be our test. She knew that Torn was rooting for Lovelace, and I was backing Ivashkov. She drew them together to settle this dispute between him and I. Clever. We'll see who stays emotionless when this is over. But there's another factor, and that's Yaa Valarro. She and Locust are... Attached. That always makes these things more complicated.

To my surprise, Yaa stays out of it, watching - like us - as a bystander. Locust and Mikhail trade blows, but nothing heavy. In turn they cut the surface of each other's clothing, wincing at the slight pain of the shallow blows. Mikhail has to win. This is the perfect chance for him to show the world that an ordinary boy from Six can kill a Career. When did I become this obsessed with proving Torn Cascade wrong? Where does it all come from? It spawned when I saw his Personal Training Session, when I saw Mikhail's potential. I suppose it's spiralled out of control from there.

"I mean being the all mighty career you are? The all mighty Locust? Show me. Show me the monster that you have trained to be. Release her, I want to know what I am really facing"