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L△LIA
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BOOM SH△KALAKA

making them pts's PUBLIC Jul 6, 2017 14:09:37 GMT -5

Post by L△LIA on Jul 6, 2017 14:09:37 GMT -5

[attr="class","JakeContainer"]

[attr="class","JakeTitle"]oh, god, I'm clean out of air in my lungs
it's all gone

[attr="class","JakeContent"]

Dawn breaks and the tributes of the Seventy-Sixth Games wake with it, anxious for the private training sessions that may nudge them toward victory or damn them to failure. All their lives, even when they were small and safe in their old homes, they have been taught that these numbers mean so much. This is judgement day. As such Jacob's escort knocks and cheerfully exclaims through the door that it's time for sleepyheads to get out of bed.

By the time Salazar realizes that there has been neither sound nor sight of the infamously faceless boy better known by his gas mask, it's far too late. Other sessions are already well under way as maintenance is brought in to remove his door... only to discover that every piece of furniture in the room has been barricaded up behind it — along with whatever he managed to drag in from other rooms in the suite while everyone else was sleeping. Sounds of his unreachable snoring echo up from behind dressers, couches, tables, and a flipped up bed he's certainly not curled up in. The floor is fine. The Capitol knows a thing or two about comfortable carpeting, he'll give them that.

Tapped to the furniture blocking the doorway is a note. While it is short, it's certainly not sweet.

Fuck you you fucking fucks. You're not the first people to think it'd be fun to come after me, but you'll have to try harder than this. I won't skip to my death.

Eat shit,

Jake-Skunk, Dick Kicking Cuntpuncher

For whatever reason, the escort doesn't seem to think this is an appropriate note of explanation to pass along to the Gamemakers. Instead he writes:

To whom it may concern,

Jacob Wickham has barricaded himself in his room. Despite the efforts of the entire maintenance staff and the District Five team, we are unable to remove him in time for the private training sessions today.

Our sincere apologies,

Salazar, District Five Escort

Except before the envelope can be sealed and brought to the Gamemakers, Patricia Valfierno quietly slips Jacob's original note inside as well because —

Because fuck you you fucking fucks.

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The wait after the Dialate girl seems to stretch on longer than normal, even as lunch gets underway. Three tributes shy of halfway and they were already falling behind.

Had it not been completely and utterly predictable, she might have laughed.

As it was, annoyance had not yet replaced amusement as the primary emotion in control when she felt a light tapping on her shoulder. Turning, she finds one of the junior Gamemakers, holding an envelope that she was claiming came from the District Five escort himself.

This ought to be good, she thought darkly as the envelope was accepted and promptly opened.

Two pieces of paper, both decorated with ink, fell out and plopped onto her notebook. A spark of curiosity igniting within her, she grabbed the first one and tilted it towards her. The fancy scrawl was clearly written by the escort in question, and it detailed that despite the efforts of himself and - “The entire maintenance staff?” she exclaimed - that Jacob Wickham had, somehow, successfully managed to outsmart a good chunk of the Capitol’s workers and his own escort to avoid attending his session.

She passed the first piece of parchment off to Callie before reaching for the second piece with one hand and a wine glass with the other. This is going to be a long day, she thought, taking a swig of the wine.

Then her eyes fell upon the first sentence of the second letter, and it took all of her willpower not to spit it right back out.

For a moment, she could do nothing but stare in shock, shock that a tribute from Five of all places had apparently grown the balls to not only defy authority but also directly insult the very people that would control whether he lived or he died.

Had this been another time, perhaps, she would have laughed. But annoyance had overtaken amusement as the primary emotion flooding through her around the same time that the first letter had been read, and she could do nothing but shake her head and pass the second piece of parchment over to Charlie.

A look exchanged with Callie gives a body to her thoughts in the form of raised eyebrows and a mute shrug, while to her right, a wine-influenced Charlie lets out a noise halfway between a snort and a snicker. “I guess we’re playing by his rules now,” she manages.

For her part, Amethyst had not yet moved on to humor just yet, even as grudging respect for the act had seeped into her mood. “Hooligan,” she muttered under her breath as a sloppy 3 filled the space next to Jacob’s - or, apparently, Jake-Skunk’s - name.

( C H A R A C T E R S )

aya
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"GUNNERRRRR~"

making them pts's PUBLIC Jul 6, 2017 17:56:13 GMT -5

Post by aya on Jul 6, 2017 17:56:13 GMT -5

Even with no one to live up to, there's so much pressure.

He might brawl with the boy, but it's not like he's Tector: he can't just stroll in there with a last name like Johnwayne and get an easy double-digit score. He wouldn't be surprised to see Kaiser Fray do something similar. Gregor's District One counterpart could probably just flash his fuckboy smile at the Gamemakers and get at least a 9 for it.

But Gregor is on his own here. He doesn't have a famous brother still throwing his ~~hips~~ weight around in the Capitol. None of his cousins' skills are on record here. There isn't a notorious branch on his whole family tree.

Not even his mentors seem to want anything to do with him, with them. Cricket wouldn't advise him beyond a vague "Don't be boring" before crab walking off to who-knows-where, and Julian hadn't even given him that much.

But the second his name is called, Gregor McGregor knows exactly what to do. His feet take him to the only place that feels anything like home: the sprawling green corner of the training center dedicated to plants. There are some flowers, tubers, berries, shoots that don't grow in Mr. McGregor's garden, but most of the flora is familiar. Ivy and bougainvilleas, roses and huckleberries, lilies and lilacs all decorate this little slice of gymnasium he's called home the past two weeks.

He sets up his obstacle course quickly: mats stacked to different heights, arranged in a spiral that encircles the training center. He tops the sides with the animatronic dummies he'd been instructed to batter (in lieu of the trainers he'd spent the week brawling with — something about settlements that Gregor wasn't able to grok); the hologram projector covers the back wall only.

Then he returns home.

The ivy comes down from the lattices with one firm tug. He drapes it over his broad shoulders — a stole marking him a graduate of Mr. McGregor's garden — and goes next for the bougainvilleas, for the roses. A pile of the right plants in front of him, he gets to work.

Over, under, over, under, and around and around and around: the deft work of eight fingers and two green thumbs weaves wonders from the plants he's pulled, right onto his body. Vines wrap around his wrists, up his arms, across his chest and around and back and down to his hips. They wreath his thighs, his knees, his calves, conforming to his body like a second skin. In mere minutes, he transforms into a walking thicket.

Tendrils trail down over his fingers. Gregor interweaves each slender stem with the spiked bougainvillea vines. Longer and packed together more closely than rose thorns, the bougainvilleas on the back of his hands pack the meanest floral punch he can put together in the training center. He ties the bare stems across his palms; the thorns protrude when he makes a fist. They may not be brass, but the bruiser's knuckles are poised to draw blood all the same.

He stands strong: a statue, a mannequin modeling his craftsmanship. Scarcely a scrap of skin shows above the ankle, below the neck.

Full-body flex. Deep breath.

Three.
Two.
One.

He is lightning.

The automatons start their dance the second he steps foot on his makeshift ramp. Up he goes, into the throng. The first sword swings; Gregor ducks then rightens, driving his shoulder and all his force into the dummy's padded chest. The District Two is onto the next one before the first hits the ground. A spear jabs at his midsection and this time he leaps, front foot using the robot's forearms as a springboard. It topples beneath the bruiser, Gregor's second foot planted firmly on its articulated neck.

Side-by-side, dummies three and four take their cuts. The McGregor blocks one blade with his woven right wrist, his retaliating southpaw swing enough to knock steel skulls together, and down they go.

The holograms are harder. As he rounds the far side of his obstacle course, they rush him. Orange and violet and blue blurs engage with the pink and green boy, hurling knives and axes of light down the way. Armored, but armed with only two sharp fists, Gregor can only protect his face and weather the storm as he barrels down the catwalk. Back ally boxing has taught him that two strong forearms are the only shield he needs, and the vines do enough to disperse the shocks that come with each strike. He grits his teeth, swings hard! — hard enough that a grunt escapes him; hard enough that the mats shift underfoot; hard enough that he pitches forward as he clears the last hologram, thorns catching his cheek on his somersault recovery.

He wastes no momentum as he pops up, staring down the home stretch. Two pairs of drones stand between him and his finish line. He's left these automata unarmed; they strike faster unencumbered by heavy steel. The flat-footed robots can't hope to go toe-to-toe with the boxer on level ground, but doubled up and with a thin strip of runway, the fight is fair. He takes a jab to the gut then another to the shoulder before he finds an opening. An uppercut puts the left robot in its place, fake blood spattering as his spikes shred skin; on the retreat, he brings his elbow into its partner's throat, brings the robot into his knee, dispatches it fully.

The last pair poses the biggest challenge yet. They strike before Gregor regains his footing, landing a one-two combo on his jaw, his eye. He stumbles backward, recovering into a full crouch, arms up while he tries to blink the stars out of his eyes. A second flurry of mechanical fists find his ribs. One catches on a vine, bringing Gregor in closer and tearing at his armor in the meantime. But the McGregor boy has too much practice with opponents to fight dirt. The would-be walloping gives him an unexpected opening.

He throws his weight forward, tackling the offending dummy, striking left-and-right-and-left-and-right and strike-strike-strike-strike-strike as his thorny knuckles turn rubber to ribbons. Its partner down and out for the count, the last android standing lands a well-placed blow to the side of the District Two's head. Gregor rolls off, grabs the fallen robot with his legs and thrusts it at his last opponent, a forceful parry with an inhuman shield.

It's not a big diversion, but it's enough for Gregor to get to his feet. He circles the last dummy, bobbing and weaving at each thrown punch. Sweat and blood dribble down his face; loose vines hang from his body as though he's unravelling. He isn't. He's never felt more put-together.

The dummy throws one fierce overhand; it sings past Gregor's right ear as he sidesteps. All he can see is his opening. He lunges forward, and — to hell with the rules, this is the Hunger Games, isn't it? — wraps his left hand around the robot's right arm. With all his might, Gregor McGregor pushes backwards, pulls his enemy into a bearhug-headlock, flexes and squeezes and tugs until — pop! Its head snaps clean off.

He drops the metal-and-polymer corpse to the ground, exhales the breath he's been holding, and exits stage right.

Jul 6, 2017 11:22:57 GMT -5 ᕙʕ•ᴥ•ʔᕗ said:

After two not-quite-meeting-expectations female tributes and a reasonably-resembling-a-career male tribute, Callie hoped that the district 2 male would somehow stand out. He had no family name to ride on like Fray, but he was still from a career district and Callie did not like being disappointed with such highly regarded districts. He didn’t seem like much while walking in—though there was no denying his attractiveness—and Callie was starting to have her doubts as he spent his time among the plants. Had he not started weaving the plants around his body, Callie would surely have paid no attention to him. The district 2 boy worked quickly, not one to waste time, and she had to keep her attention on him if she didn’t want to miss a step.

He had created a—vine suit? It was different from anything Callie had seen, but if that was all he had to offer, she was afraid she couldn’t give him a score above a 5.

It wasn’t all he had to offer. The obstacle course he had set up before he started weaving finally had a purpose as he moved through it, fighting through dummies, holograms, and drones. There he showed true skill, the epitome of what training for a Games should look like. He was versatile, strong, but more importantly creative. Callie found herself nodding along to the session, her eyes never leaving the boy. It wasn’t perfect—the boy was experiencing a full fight—but it was pretty damn good.

Callie wasn’t the only one who was impressed with the boy. “The best defense is a good offense – that armor creation was impeccable. And I like that he actually gave himself a challenge instead of slicing at stationary dummies.” If Charlie Garnet was impressed, then that tribute must have showed her something she hadn’t seen in a long time: actual skill. “Alright, color me impressed. The flower armor was a nice touch.” Callie nodded along with Amethyst’s words. “It’s something different. Something I’m hoping the other career districts can show.” Little discussion was needed as the three Gamemakers gave the district 2 boy an 11, perhaps the only high score of the day.

{characters}

certified kindergartener
stranded in "beach" "city"
leader of the crystal gems

Baby Wessex d9b [earthling]
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cameron stood in line for an hour for a stupid ride for me <3 best <3

making them pts's PUBLIC Jul 6, 2017 22:47:40 GMT -5

Post by Baby Wessex d9b [earthling] on Jul 6, 2017 22:47:40 GMT -5

The moment I enter the gym, my name and district are echoing off the concrete walls. I feel compelled to wrap myself around the nearest pillar, to soak in the reverberations. But is that what I want? Or what fate compels me? I settle for a compromise, brushing the wall. There’s nothing more than the vibration itself, no lightning strike, no defibrillation.

I march to the center of the room, confidence restored, and then present myself to the Gamemakers. Victor Manor has assured me that any request for personal items will be denied. Without such, I cannot do a proper reading – and lacking that, what have I to offer? I didn’t tell Victor Manor, or Ree Fer, or my look-what-the-cat-dragged-in allies. This hour isn’t for them; it’s for Charlie and Amethyst and Callienta.

“It’s important that you know – I’ve already died once. I’m going to show you how it happened and how I came to be here. Where I come from is where I am heading. But you should also know that I don’t have a death wish. I did, before, but now that I’ve lain in darkness, I’d much rather be here, with you.”

I walk to the plants station, stepping behind a table and begin to organize potted plants, upending two and ordering the rest neatly, designing the layout to be optimally viewed by the Gamemakers. “But we don’t always get a choice in these things,” I finish the dangling thought, beneath my breath. Into one pot I stuff dead leaves and twigs, then a stick aimed at the heavens. It takes a bit of coaxing to ignite but soon a smoky fire burns in the ceramic. The next pot I wash out and set aside.

I lift a twig and use it as a wand. First I tap the delicate yellow flowers. “Ragwort,” and then the clustering pale purple beauties, “Mountain Laurel.” I proceed down the table, tapping all five of the poisonous potted flowers I’ve collected. “ Oleander. Bloodroot. Opium. The last two will kill ya, be sure of it, but you’d hardly notice the transition. It’d be a gentler way to go. But the people who poisoned me weren’t trying to be gentle.” I can’t help the shiver that snakes up my spine. “They used Hemlock which I haven’t been able to find here in the Capitol. I suppose death only comes in that form once.”

Lesson over, I set to work. Garden gloves donned, I pluck and mash, mix and muddle. The beautiful flowers turn to mush in the pot, their fragrance mutilated. I set the mash pot over the one with the fire and let the warmth coax out the poisons. The twig becomes a spoon. Carefully, oh so carefully, I ladle the deadly oil into a vial. I am so intent on the task, so careful not to spill. Maybe they don’t notice when I slip an empty vial into my pocket. Maybe they do.

Quickly, running short of time (I am, more than they know), I rip the garden gloves off and grab a dummy. I put the vial in its shirt pocket. I shake its hand. I laugh. I blush. I make it dance with me. And then I turn from it, sobbing. I reach back, pull its hand forward. I bury my sobs into its chest. Slowly I push it to its knees. I touch its face, tenderly, and take the vial from its pocket. I wrap my hand around the glass so that you cannot see the contents. I flip the cap, letting it clatter to the ground.

I drink.

I collapse over the dummy’s thighs.

I stare, unblinking, at the glaring lights.

With a gasp, I come to standing all at once, the rush darkening my vision. This. This is what it is actually like. If only I could show them. If only I could take the palms and tell them what they want to know – am I worth their time? Will they honor what I need to do? But I can’t give them that, so I give them something else instead.

My heart in throat, I draw my cupped hands to my chest, drop my chin, extend my left leg back as far as it will go, and curtsy. When I rise, I produce the vial of poison and approach their podium, as close as I dare get to the electric barrier.

“I hope you will accept my gift. Use it however you see fit, or be cautious if you choose to discard it. I wish I had more to tell you. If I could have just read your fortunes…” I bite down on my lower lip. Could I? This close, only electricity to separate us? Before I know what I’m doing I’m reaching forward and I know it will hurt but I cannot stop. My will, or fate?

The jolt is enough to snap my teeth together, to loose the vial from my grip. It tumbles, end over end, to the concrete, bounces once, and then lies still. A web of possibilities extends from the intact glass. If that’s all I can offer them, well, it is enough. “Goodbye, dear Gamemakers,” I manage, my fingers and eyelids twitching. “I do not think we will meet again.”

Charlie Garnet is a third of a mimosa in when Adelaide Throes waltzes into the center of the room, and she leans forward in her seat as the girls speaks. She’s already died before? Perhaps it’s in the metaphorical sense, but it could certainly account for the confidence in her footsteps, or her decision to volunteer. Intriguing.

She makes her way to the plants, where she waves a twig like a wand and gathers poisonous flowers. Ragwort, Mountain Laurel, Oleander, Bloodroot, Opium. She’s been poisoned - hemlock. Somehow, I doubt that. You don’t survive a hemlock poisoning, especially in Three. It’s almost ethereal, how Adelaide works, or maybe it’s another word, on the tip of her tongue… She mashes the plants into a pot, a witch’s brew that’s ladled into a vial.

And then Charlie finds the word she was looking for. Crazy. Adelaide dances with a dummy, feigning a romance with sobs and tender embraces. She takes the vial from her pocket and drinks, falling into the throes of death itself. Immediately, Charlie turns to her tablet, sending a Code Red message to the medics outside, but before they venture through the double doors there’s a gasp back to life. Charlie raises one eyebrow as she offers a gift to them, whispering words of fortunes and reaching towards them only to be zapped back into submission.

“Goodbye, dear Gamemakers. I do not think we will meet again.”

“The feeling is mutual,” Garnet mutters under her breath. As Adelaide leaves, Charlie turns the barrier off to the shouts of a few junior Gamemakers. Quietly she descends, reaching the ground floor and taking the vial back up with her. It sits beside her drink as she watches the remainder of the sessions, a danger that lurks at her peripherals. She already has a low score jotted down in her notebook when they begin to speak again about the District Three girl.

“Adelaide Throes,” Charlie starts, looking at her two partners.

Callienta just shakes her head. “She… confuses me.” It’s an apt statement, Charlie could think for days about Adelaide Throes and get nowhere in particular.

“She seems to have a screw loose, or five,” Amethyst chimes in. “The poison tolerance is intriguing, though.”

“Poison tolerance?” Charlie utters, turning to the other blonde in astonishment. “I think she’s just overdramatic.” She takes the vial, turning it over and over again in her hand. There’s no actual proof that she took a single sip from this vial - you certainly couldn’t see it from the Gamemaker’s booth. But maybe she can do something more interesting in the future, use her skills for something other than masochism. But otherwise, all they got was breakfast and a show. No substance.

Yet against her wishes, Callienta and Amethyst rank high on the intrigue and unexplained witchcraft, and Charlie is forced to up Throes’ score to a 7.

At least it’ll be entertaining.

credit umber vivuus 12b 🥀 [dars]

credit ✨ zozo.

- chars -

kap
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trans rights are human rights <3

making them pts's PUBLIC Jul 7, 2017 10:45:01 GMT -5

Post by kap on Jul 7, 2017 10:45:01 GMT -5

lorenza aita.

Za-Za felt no nervousness whatsoever upon entering the room where she would be conducting her private training session for the Gamemakers. Renaissance had taught her so much when it came to training, and on top of that, she had any experience that she had gained upon being there in the Capitol. Therefore, she felt confident and ready. She would be showing her skills in the best way she possibly could.

Introducing herself by name and District as the entered the room, she then proceeded to conduct her training session. She was intelligent, and knew just what she was going to do to attempt to achieve a decent score. First, the District One tribute gathered up a knife, lighting it on fire. To follow, she ventured over to some ropes that hung from the rafters, and made her way up using only one hand and her feet. Her other hand was tightly grasping the flaming knife.

Despite her height, she was perfectly capable of climbing. Therefore, Lorenza was able to make it up to the rafters. At one point, the flames licked her hand, but she held in the pain. She couldn’t let the Gamemakers know how truly challenging this was for her. When Za-Za reached the rafters, however, she lost her grip on the knife, and it fell to the ground, flames skittering across the floor.

Quickly, Lorenza descended halfway down the rope, then letting go and allowing herself to fall the remainder of the way down. Her feet collided with the ground, and she landed without tumbling or hurting herself, luckily. Then, she proceeded to pick up the knife that was now close to running out of flames to show off, and lit it once more. Proceeding to climb the rope one last time, she made it to the top without dropping the knife on this occurrence. Aiming at one of the dummies that was on the ground, she readied herself to throw the flaming knife.

As the knife soars out of her hand and through the air, it pierces the center of the dummy’s upper chest, directly in between where its nipples would have been, had it been a real human. The flames began to spread on the mannequin, and Lorenza began to climb down the rope once more, again, jumping as soon as she was halfway down and landing on her feet. One’s female tribute then charged the dummy, swiping its feet out from under it and causing it to clash with the floor. Lorenza ripped the no longer flaming knife out of its chest and slit its throat. When she was finished, she dropped the knife to the ground, turned to the Gamemakers, thanked them, and proceeded to exit the room.

Their day started off with one - both in the literal and the figurative sense. Lorenza Aita had no famous name, no rush to volunteer, no reputation to precede her. That made her a blank slate - which, as she had heard, could mean very different things come the end result.

And had the girl came from a lower district, had she not been the very first to display her skills to Amethyst and her colleagues, then perhaps she would have been more…memorable. There was no denying she had the talent - climbing up a rope one-handed, possessing enough skill to hit her target from above and the ability to sweep its feet out from underneath it - but she wasn’t in possession of the clean, refined skill she had gotten so used to seeing from the Career districts.

Her handling of the knife had been sloppy, between letting herself get burned with her own fire (something that hadn’t even happened in Games) and dropping it on her first attempt, something that would no doubt have equated a death sentence had she been trying to get the drop on a tribute or muttation, and by the time she had finished, Amethyst was feeling, well, underwhelmed.

Apparently, she was not the only one to possess this state of mind.

“Interesting skill, but it doesn’t seem like she has a full mastery of it.” Callie commented, and she found herself silently agreeing. “After all, she had to climb back down. What tribute is going to let her just do that?”

“I can appreciate a one-handed climb up a rope, but at the end of it this was too simple to show, especially for a career.” Charlie too seemed to be in agreement, voicing what they all seemed to feel - for a Career, Aita was simply too average

And unfortunately for her, simply average never cut it in the Hunger Games.

“Not bad,” she finally admitted, for it wasn’t terrible, per say, “but also not what I’d expect from someone from a Career district.”

It doesn’t take long for them to agree on a score, and with a quick swoop of her pen, the number 6 becomes the first blemish on the otherwise clean scoring sheet.

D6f Carmen Cantelou [aza]
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making them pts's PUBLIC Jul 7, 2017 18:55:31 GMT -5

Post by D6f Carmen Cantelou [aza] on Jul 7, 2017 18:55:31 GMT -5

I have been told that I am nothing more or less than a career.

Stony-hearted, brutal, murderous, capable of the indescribable and a lover of it too, vicious and horrific, cadaverous but strong. I don't think I've ever fit the mould of what it takes to be lethal; giving someone the kiss of life always seemed a far better option that sucking their soul out of them with a final blow to the head. I suppose that this is just what they teach you when you are born as I am—no hope of aspiring to anything else, my dreams are nothing but fantasies. Shoot for the stars and you'll land amongst the sky; to be shown, to be praised and to be admired.

Brutality is in my blood. I can't deny that. I know it and I know that it is a fact. As harsh and as cold as it is, I need to embrace it. No matter who, no matter what, when, where, why or how—some people are destined for peace whereas others are destined for war. Coming to terms with the fact that the Capitol doesn't care about morality, well-being or ethics, I feel as though my only choice is to turn the pages of the story that my parents wrote for me.

Day by day; nightfall becomes dawn and soon enough meditation becomes a ritual for channelling and not changing.

I've held on far too goddamn long and I had forgotten how to let go. Little did I know that letting go would involve closing my eyes and clearing my heart, not mind. And I learnt a simple truth when I woke up in the middle of the night two days ago, sweat soaked through my sheets—embrace the life that is working it's way into your consciousness.

I tried to let being a career go when I stared at the water, remembering the vision of blood on my hands and tears in my eyes, longing for stillness and peace of mind. Three years later and I realise that I never really let it go.

It was always 'one day' with me, and never 'day one'.

I tried, sure, but it stayed. Fate fucked with me, and who am I to deny fate when it comes knocking day after day, night after night? I am just a girl who thinks her head is strong enough to change her world, when in reality, her head is full of dim yellow fireflies, curtains in the wind and a visual of an undying candle that is set to achieve the impossible.

Today, I'm ready for real change. Today, I let life do the talking. Life starts here, right now, when the speaker calls my name.

"Lux Pelotte." And I know that I am following in fate's footsteps, turning one day into day one. It's not the way I wanted it to be and it's not what I planned, but life works in strange ways and if this is who I am meant to be, if this is the way I am programmed and built, so be it.

This is Lux Pelotte.

"I am Lux Pelotte." I tell them as I step foot into the training centre.

Unbothered, they sit with their fine wine and cheeseboard. A blind eye may b made to my entrance but careers have a habit of drawing attention. I'm a career; catching the audience and building the tension until the rope frays, snaps and blood seeps from the wound. Titanic oceans rippling under the strain and pressure to succeed—we are taught to take it on the chin.

Hold our heads high, pull it together and not give a single damn.

I tell myself that I'm not used to feeling this way. I'm not—but I am caught in a web with no light, only darkness. Sorrow as the sun, life has taken the wheel. No control and I have no means of surrender; I step forward and stare.

Oceans away from the person I want to be. So be it, I think. These are the Hunger Games, they do not stop for anyone.

"I'm not afraid." I shout. "Not anymore, at least."

I head over to the knife throwing station, grabbing a few by the handle before taking them over to the fishing lines and hooks. I connect the knives with wires and lines; slowly, I weave them together until they are suspended in a symmetrical formation. Three on the left, three on the right. I dangle them from a thread, taking them over to a set of armour.

"But you should be." My voice echoes around the room. "You have inspired my inner serial killer."

Today, I wear trouble like a crown.

The helmet is the focus of this task. It's a trap—blood and brutal—and when I intertwine the knives and their lines with the rivets of the helmet, it all comes together. A deadly trap; all it needs is an unsuspecting soul and an ounce of restraining. It doesn't even require you to waste a minute ending them. I equip the dummy with the helmet, the blades pointing away from it's face. A prison cell made up of fines blades; escape is possible—

—but only if you push your face through the knives.

The second trap uses pieces of chest armour. I take the pieces over to a table of weapon, carefully selecting some studded brass knuckles. I carry four sets of the tiny blades over to a clear space in the centre of the room, looking around before having a eureka moment when the fire-making station catches my eye. Grabbing a knife, I sit by the bundle of logs running the knife back and forth over the wood.

Sap begins to collect on the silver blade. I carry it back to the collection of items in the room's centre, settling it down with care. I dip my finger in the liquid, smoothing it along the back of the brass knuckles before securing them inside the metal pieces of armour. There are two on the front; good measure, mostly, because I was taught that just the one would do the trick.

Four in total; two in the front, two in the back, just like that.

This is about betrayal—a friend might ask you to help with their armour. You hold the front and back pieces over them loosely, before tightening the armour quickly. The spikes stab their skin between their ribs and it isn't a pretty sight, but it's a sight that proves I know how to fight, survive and thrive.

I place it on the dummy with the unfortunate head problem.

"Accidents happen." I say. "I have a bad habit of causing accidents." I tilt my head; royal stature, head of steel. No heart, not today. "I wonder, Gamemakers. Is it still a bad habit if I like it?"

Inhaling the future, I exhale the past.

Finally, I approach an unscathed dummy, a dagger in my hand. "I'm dangerous. I get that." Cross my path and that person is made to take responsibility for their fault; revenge, retribution triggers the birth and once I'm transformed—I swear, I will rise like a phoenix from the ashes of my touch.

"Wrong me and I'll cut off your ear." The dummy's ear comes off with a swift motion from the dagger. Things begin to feel so right; weight on my shoulders slipping away and ease in my own personhood. Living isn't a question, it's a statement, and life is making a strong statement amount my lethality. I don't deny it the right to take control, I let it be.

For a moment I forget survival and focus on my revival. Embracing the blood in my veins and the havoc it can cause. Elders' words running on a loop in my mind. Legacies and success stories; the story of a sister who lost track of time and was kept under house arrest until she swore to train again. Photographs from a stolen camera, the sand as a playground and the sun as a warm kiss—simpler times where being oblivious was valued higher than a sinner's prayer.

A career, through and through. I won't fight it anymore, there are bigger battles to be won.

"Continue to wrong me and I''ll just..." The blade comes down on the other ear.

"Keep." Multiple fingers come off in the next slice.

"Chopping." With each slice, a piece of the dummy's body becomes disconnected. I imagine the faces of people who have tried it with me: the good girls and the bad boys, the bad girls and the good boys. Each wrong by their own right, their faces morph into one another, into a blur until eventually, there is a blank space to which I put my own name.

Halo fractured, the halves become horns.

I rise, throwing the dagger down into the neck of the dummy before brushing myself down, glancing up to the Gamemakers, hoping I've made an impression. If there are no guts, then there is no glory or legend and if there is no legend, there is no story.

Fate fucked with me and it changed my thinking, my mindset, my story. To see the world differently, I needed to listen. I needed to listen to life; the one that was destined for me before birth and the one that has never tried to run or hide despite years of compression. I won't deny fate, I'll allow it to stop holding on and start letting go; my trainer back in Four told me that sometimes, letting go takes more courage than anything else.

He was the one who told me that I am nothing more or less than a career. I think about it for a moment, before coming to the conclusion that there is nothing more than a career in the Hunger Games, meaning that I am nothing less than a career.

I go over the words in my mind, I am nothing less than a career.

As I begin to leave, I turn my head, looking up to the three Gamemakers.

"I am not a girl to kill. I am a girl to kill for. Remember that."

Lux Pelotte enters to the conclusion of breakfast and a trio of lowered expectations, for if the third Career district was to follow the pattern of the first two, then she would have nothing to show - the party would only start once she had concluded her best efforts and her district partner had stepped in to pick up the slack.

But, fortunately for the reputation of Career females as a whole and Amethyst’s interest level alike, the girl from Four proves that she possesses greater control over her skill than Lorenza Aita, a greater hold on her tongue than Aline Larkin, and enough ingenuity to make an otherwise forgettable name truly remarkable.

She starts with a declaration - "I'm not afraid," she cries, loud and clear, "Not anymore, at least," - and follows it up with a trip to the knife throwing station, coaxing a sigh of disappointment from the freshman Gamemaker, because watching people throw things is so unoriginal and so, so boring.

But four words - “But you should be,” - snap her back to attention, and she refocuses on the Career girl to find that she has slipped a total of six knives on a fishing line. Another sentence - "You have inspired my inner serial killer," - piques her interest, and she watches as the girl makes her way over to a set of armor, plucking a helmet from its place like a scavenger would a bird egg.

Her curiosity turns to excitement as the girl from Four lines her knives on the interior of the helmet before placing it on the head of an unsuspecting dummy, the true meaning of the booby-trapped armor not lost on her.

She repeats the process again, this time with a torso piece. She explains her skill at causing “accidents” - the quotes evident in all but visibility - and then asks if it’s a bad thing if she likes it, to which she can barely refrain shaking her head in response.

But even that is not the end, for she takes her last remaining knife and mutilates a different dummy, taking off one body part, one chunk of flesh at a time. By the time she tosses the dagger into the neck of the offending dummy and departs, words have completely escaped her, for she believes that she has just found her new favorite.

Callie grins, an actual genuine grin. “I like her,” is the simple statement that follows, but it alone is one that she finds herself wholeheartedly agreeing with.

“Clever, sly, and confident.” Charlie too appears to have fallen under the Pelotte girl’s spell. “There really hasn’t been enough backstabbing recently. This isn’t ‘Panem’s Best Friend Games’.”

It takes them little time to decide and agree upon the shiny 11 that decorates the space next to her name.