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gamemaker tallis 🧚🏽‍♂️kaitlin.
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aspiring beam of light

✩ public training sessions ✩ Jun 10, 2020 12:29:38 GMT -5

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Post by gamemaker tallis 🧚🏽‍♂️kaitlin. on Jun 10, 2020 12:29:38 GMT -5

terra
markov

I didn't talk to Teddy about my private training session.

I think that's probably a mistake, but if I'm being honest with myself, I hadn't really thought about it much myself until a few hours ago. I knew what I wanted to do, generally, but I didn't block it out in my head exactly, didn't want to lock myself into a plan just in case the trainers didn't do exactly what I'd requested of them.

Humans are fickle creatures, and I refuse to put my trust in them for this.

Not after Kingpin, not after the ways in which he's been promising me for years that I'm valuable. That I'm irreplaceable. "Someone will volunteer," he'd assured me time and time again, promised that he had a whole list of contingency plans for if my name was ever pulled from the bowl. When my name was followed by crystal clear silence, sharp enough to cut, it was my entire world coming down around me, a cage that I hadn't even known I was locked inside of opening up for the first time.

It's cruel to tame a thing that doesn't know its strength.

I'm glad I finally know mine.

Sitting here in my uniform, the smooth cloth shifting along my skin, I can't help it when every single one of my thoughts goes to my fellow soldiers, the bloodhounds and scientists alike, the drug runners and the captains, every one a single cog in the bigger operation run by Kingpin. I catch sight of Perdita just as she's about to go through the door, and something in the shift of her hair makes me think about Sam, a small pang in my chest forming around her name. Thinking about Sam and everything that she loves, everything she's always going on and on about, DNA splicing and designer DNA and how people create mutts out of a base code or something or other and turn an animal into a weapon and I'm thinking about my knives and I'm thinking about my Gamemakers I—well, I have an idea.

Probably not a good one, but an idea all the same.

Verena Halitrephes has never been someone that I particularly paid attention to, but in Six she's something of a force to be reckoned with, a scientific mind for the ages, someone with the kind of genius people in Six would kill to be able to study under. I hadn't been planning to say much, had planned to find my knives and my hiding places and point out every small little vulnerable place on the human body that I had ever had the pleasure of learning.

And that would be it.

I wasn't here for a show, wasn't here for anything glamorous; I want to show them more than what I am, want to show them what I'm capable of.

Those are the things that matter.

But maybe, just maybe, I could bring a little piece of home into the room with me.

And maybe, if I'm lucky, Verena and Nilima will like it.

"District Six Female, Terra Markov," the announcer calls when they step back into the room. I look sideways at JJ and Helle, throw them a little smirk and mouth good luck.

When I walk into the room, I nod to my Gamemakers to show respect, knowing that I'll have to fight to hold their attention. I'm the girl in the middle, I know that, and so I know that I'll be the tribute most likely to be forgotten, the one that didn't start the show off with a bang and the one that didn't end with a whimper.

"The first time I killed someone, I was twelve," I start, my voice steady. "That word—first. It's important here," I go on, walking quickly past the blades station. Between words, my hand darts out and picks up six of the small knives, tucking them between each of my fingers, a knife for every space in between. I'm hoping that the Gamemakers' eyes won't be on my hands, that I'll have made this motion and kept them distracted with my words.

I've always been a good thief, but these are Gamemakers.

They see everything, do they not?

Still, a newly freed girl hopes.

"I know that most people from Six learn about medicine and the human body in school, but I had a more up close and personal education." It's almost eerie, hearing my lone voice echo around the cavernous room. So few times have I been made to speak like this, to monologue to an audience of two, to present myself for the chopping block. At home, my stage was a dark alley at night, whispering in a victim's ear about how they had crossed the wrong man, made the wrong move, snitched on the wrong villain. I was a bloodhound, not a lieutenant; I never gave the orders.

But still, my voice doesn't shake.

I won't let it.

As I speak, the first of the humanoid robots I'd requested comes to life and walks through the door. I'd honestly expected the trainers to set all of them on me at a single time, but only two walk through the door. I didn't spin around to meet them immediately, though I could hear the patter of their heavy footsteps coming up behind me. "Have you ever heard of 'designer DNA'?" I ask, though the question is mostly rhetorical.

I know who my audience is.

And I will show them what I can do, but I'd rather they value me for how I think.

When finally I'm sure that the humanoid is close enough, I spin away from my Gamemakers and grab the thing by its arm. Rather conveniently, its arms are already outstretched towards me, presumably to make an attempt at grabbing me, I'm sure. I'm confident enough in myself that I could succeed in this even if it hadn't been reaching for me, but either way the thing made my job easier and between one breath and the next I've stabbed my first knife into the thing's armpit. I know that was probably not the most impressive option to start with, but the opportunity was right there. Who can blame a girl for easing into things? I barely spare the thing a glance as it's mechanical mind registers blinding pain and presumably death.

Stabbing clean through someone's axillary artery will do that.

"The axillary artery," I say, voice sharp as my blade. "An easy target, especially for a blade like that."

The next humanoid thing isn't far behind the other though, and I almost take a right hook to the cheek before I bend backward, out of the way. It's a move that would send most people off-balance, and I struggle with it on occasion, so I'm glad today when I bend back into myself quickly and stay steady.

I make sure to keep my knife flat as I dig it up and between the robot's fake ribcage, plunging the blade right into where his right lung would be. I don't know if they have the exact infrastructure of a human, but it reacts as I would expect one to: by coughing up blood. "He'll drown in his own blood soon," I say, stepping back, uninterested now. As I go on, another of the things comes into focus, and I'm striding towards it while I speak. "Do you know how easy it is to tweak the DNA of bacteria?" I ask as my knife flicks out ahead of me. The sharp of the blade gouges itself into the robot's right eye and it teeters, but doesn't quite fall down. I'd expected as much—killing with a thrown knife through the eye takes a harder throw—which is why I'm still going at it full speed, once again holding my blade flat as I push it up between the third and fourth ribs, right into the liver. "Puncture wounds to the liver require immediate attention," I say, not yet quite breathless from the exertion, but I can feel the strain of using my strength beginning to be tested.

Then I go where I truly want.

I climb up.

As I steady myself to go on, I start my ascent, pushing myself up towards the rafters with every bit of strength that I can find in my body. It doesn't matter how many years a person spends doing things like this, pushing yourself up to a roof by shimmying up between two huge pillars is hard fucking work, and anyone who says otherwise is lying.

But still, I manage to make it up, and without catching myself on the blades, just in time for the final humanoid to come to full strength and walk into the large room. I'm dancing along the beams now, out of breath from the exertion, but I know that this is going to be the most important one. I've never been a fan of throwing knives, prefer to keep my blades as close to me as possible.

I think it's because I like control.

But I know a thrown knife is more impressive than one held close, and I've committed myself to this final kill from a distance. I settle into my stance, crouch down until I look more like a spider than a girl, all long limbs twisted together. I wait for the right moment, and when the humanoid turns—I throw.

My knife buries itself exactly where I needed it to, right there at the base of its skull. I stand, begging my mouth not to grin, but I'm no good at tamping down my impulses and when I start to smile, I don't do much to hold it back.

"My knives feel almost like they're a part of me," I begin. "But what if they were a part of me?" I ask, my smile as sharp as my horns had been at the opening ceremony. "I just showed you all the most vulnerable spots on a human's body, the little fissures between our strongest parts, the places where it's almost too easy to steal a person's life out from under them. The skull and the spine are resilient things, but a knife between them and it's all over." With no knives left in my hands, I'm even more dextrous than I was just a few moments ago. "What if you could build a human who didn't have those weaknesses?" I ask as I balance on my toes, almost dancing along the beam, high above everything. "For all we humans are apex predators and all that, we are remarkably fragile. What if, the way that you create mutts for your games, you could create a person just as fierce?"

I know myself, my weakness and my strengths, know that I'm not the smartest person in every room, that I'm not the girl who's going to create an army of humans turned weapons, but I'm clever and I'm creative enough to have the idea, and after everything that Kingpin has put me through, all the ways in which he has turned me into a monster: I want my Gamemakers to see that I can be so much more monstrous than the thing that he made me, want them to see that I know all the human body's weaknesses and how I think we could turn them into strengths. I curl into myself again until I'm dangling from the rafter, my hands holding me up. Looking down, it strikes me that it's further to the nearest post than I'd originally thought, but it's too late to turn back now, so I swing down onto one of the posts holding up the elevated net.

Reckless? Maybe.

But I don't know exactly how else they expected us to use the thing to train, and it would work well as a place to land if I fucked up the jump.

Thank Ripred I don't though.

"Look," I say, crouched atop that post, coming to a standstill. I'm balanced with both feet on the post, but it's so thin that really only the balls of my feet are holding me up. A strong gust of wind, and most people would topple to the floor and break something; worse yet, most people wouldn't be able to balance on top of the beam at all if they could even clobber their way up. But I've never been most people, have been dancing across rooftops and sinking knives into people's jugular for the last three years, and I'm not about to fall down now. "This is supposed to be about giving you all a show, I know, but I've never been that kind of a person." I backflip off of the post, land feet first on the soft mat, and quickly tuck into a squat before rolling forwards and coming to a stand just that much closer to the Gamemaker's viewing box.

Okay, maybe that was to show off.

But I'd like to see someone prove it.

"This was to show you what I can do, sure, but I want to make something very clear: I'd rather you think about what more I could be capable of." I cock my head to the side, voice playful. Too comfortable. "I mean, imagine what a girl could look like with a proper pair of canines."

And I grin.

tl;dr, terra kills a few humanoid robots very efficiently, talks a lot
about designer dna, and generally refuses to "put on a show"
or be anything other than exactly who she is. a terror!

response from verena [ WT ]:

You know pandering when you hear it.

That doesn't necessarily mean it isn't working.

You doubt Terra Markov, with her up close and personal education, has the background to support her own ideas. If she did, she would bring up the research along these lines from back before Gaul and her ilk pushed too hard and got human experimentation as a field as good as banned. That's alright; science starts not with knowledge but with questions, and sometimes people dream bigger before they learn what's come before. If you had met her in your usual capacity, you'd be thrilled to work through this with her, coaxing mechanics into genetics and concepts into a précis one question at a time—get her to explain how she would armor a body without ruining its dexterity, then get her thinking about evolutionary arms races, about how someone or something might crack that armor back open.

But you met her here, and in the end, she's more useful to Panem where she is.

Fortunately, she's made a good showing on that front, too. Bringing the robots out is always a nice touch, and you raised your eyebrows, impressed, when she first made for the rafters. All in all she's put on much the type of display you would usually expect from a Career, organized and adroit, with displays of both strength and aim; you don't doubt for a moment that she's telling the truth about having killed before, or that she can do it again.

You grin back as she closes her speech, and you're still smiling when you write down her looping 9.

what are men to rocks and mountains?

a haunted house.

eulalie blake 1a 🍒 tris
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✩ public training sessions ✩ Jun 10, 2020 13:09:12 GMT -5

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Post by eulalie blake 1a 🍒 tris on Jun 10, 2020 13:09:12 GMT -5

"Perdita Leto. District Four."

She says her name like it needs to be said.

Like they don't already know.

When she glances up at the spectators, it is a simple courtesy. 'My fate is in your hands,' her eyes say. But then her jaw tightens, 'I want it back.' So she moves slowly, but with purpose, turning on her heels and walking to the training pool.

There is nothing graceful about what she plans to do, just rage. So she turns one last time, catching their gaze once more, before she takes a step back and she's falling. And there's a splash, and a ripple, but her hands reach out of the water and grip the concrete siding.

Nature tries to bring her back up, tries to force her head above the waves. But she holds herself there, until her knuckles are white. She's drowning herself, in that moment, and she's almost surprised by how thoughtless it is. She thought her mind would be screaming.

But all she feels is a burning, an empty fury that twists through her veins and makes her choke out bubbles. "Get the medic!" she hears a distant shout, hears the faraway creak of a door and the thundering of footsteps. And the bubbles stop. Her grip loosens.

Her trap has been laid.

She lunges out of the water with a gasp for air, using the adrenaline as fuel to pull herself out of the depths. The medic is standing there, looking shocked and useless in that moment, but he has come to her for a reason. She knew that they would send him.

And she screams when she swings her fist at his nose, when the crack of the bone ricochets through her, when he stumbles backwards. And she keeps punching him. Keeps kicking. She is a monstrous girl, a cornered animal, and she fights this man by the water — even though he refuses to raise his own hands in defense.

She thought her anger would be louder, louder than the thud of her flesh against his and the popping of his joints. She thought that this would be a horrible kind of healing, that she would be thinking so many things. That hurting this man would mean something.

That she would give him a face. A name.

There's a medkit slipping from his grip, and she snatches it from his hands. Then she gives it back to him with a yell, slamming him in the face with it. And he reaches for her, like he could steady himself using the thing that is killing him, but she shrugs him off.

And he spits up blood, and he stumbles backwards, and she watches the water swallow him up. She stares down at him for a moment, sinking into the darkness, and she looks back to the gods on their thrones. And she lifts her bloody knuckles into the air, showing the damage she caused to herself.

And she's shaking, and her breaths are ragged, but she has never looked more primal. More ready for war. This is her battle cry, the snarl of her words. "I can save myself." Because for all of her life, people have tried to rescue Perdita Leto.

From the sea.

From herself.

From everything.

Now here she stands, by a pool of reddening water, keeping the attention of her captors while a man is close to death beneath her. The clock is ticking, but no medic is rushing in. All of their focus is on her, on their prize. This damaged girl; this dangerous girl.

She runs a red hand through her wet hair, moving it away from her face and turning to walk away. She glances at the pool, at the sudden stillness, at the unconscious body floating at the top. "Who is going to save him?" And then she goes, taking all of her rage with her.

And all is quiet, and lethal.

And this is her.

This is Perdita Leto.

I am up with the sunrise
I'm tired and I think I want to go home
so let's go and get started
do you hear me calling, crying out?
when I run up to the house
catch me if you think you can

TLDR;

Perdita pretends to drown herself, waiting for a medic to come rescue her; only to trick them all by launching herself out of the water and beating the man unconscious. She lets him fall into the pool, asking "Who will save him?" Everyone tries to rescue her, but who rescues the people that she hurts?

response from GM Verena [WT] ;

You sip your coffee quietly as the girl drowns.

Shouting on the floor raises buzzing among the junior Gamemakers, and you give the nearest few a reassuring wave without looking away from the pool, murmuring, "Wait for it." No tribute who truly intended to die—even to use their death as a statement—would expect to succeed here, in the spotlight, with medical attention a single alarm away. Even now Perdita Leto holds herself to the edge of the pool with the same fury you saw fixed in her face when she looked up, making sure all eyes were on her. She has other plans.

She bursts back out and then swings, screaming, before she's so much as given herself a chance to catch her breath. You set your coffee down.

The medic does nothing to assist her display, only takes the blows—and the further blows, and the further, as she keeps coming for him. A bit of a pity, that. Her targets in the Arena won't stand down for their own murders, and Perdita is only proving that she can attack, not that she can fight. All the same, you take approving note of her relentlessness, nodding your head a fraction at her easy willingness to pitch a man who only meant to help her into the water.

She may be a touch shortsighted, if she thinks you only have the one medic to hand. But the point is well enough made.

Nilima, for her part, looks unamused. You can't claim you entirely disagree; you're hesitant to reward assaulting Capitol personnel. On the other hand, win or lose, you can't ignore that this girl is going to scrap her way to the bitter end.

"Well," you begin. "No finesse, but the ferocity deserves something."

The bargaining settles out to a 4.

all my girls got their lace and their crimes.

Kire
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thinking about thonking

✩ public training sessions ✩ Jun 10, 2020 14:48:19 GMT -5

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Post by Kire on Jun 10, 2020 14:48:19 GMT -5

D A E M O N

He's silent as he thinks. In this hallway the sound of breathing is the loudest thing next to the occasional shuffling. As he moves closer the door he comes also comes closer to his idea. Memory is stretched and he tries to hold onto what he knows for sure. Years upon years of watchin and rewatching and he hopes that he has memorized enough to at least drive the point home if not mirror events exactly.

His dreams circle behind his eyes, the feeling of fog clinging to his skin sending a shiver down his spine. He can only hope he doesn't encounter any in the arena. Of course, knowing how these Games usually worked, they would specifically target him for the sake of causing him to experience his fears. Terror sold, as did blood. He was sure he would offer up his fair share of both, but first he would show how another had done just that.

Finally, his name was called. Each time someone announced him there was both an incredible sense of wrongness and the feeling of belonging. He was meant to be here, as much as he knew it was a bad idea. Victors don't come from District six. Teddy may have proven Wyatt wrong, but the victor was a one in a million, or at least a one in hundreds. He was the exception to prove the rule. His gut clenched around the certain knowledge he would not survive.

He set up before turning his gaze to the gamemakers. Dragging three of the training dummies over, he grabbed a wig from the camouflage station and placed it on the head of one of them - a crude visual cue indicating one to be female. He faced the female and one of the males opposite of the other male. He then retrieved a saw, a hatchet, and a scimitar and brought them over to rest on the ground in front of the three figurines. Turning finally to address the gamemakers, he didn't bother to try and smile.

"I wasn't even born when the 64th happened." He shrugged, it was a fact, and he bet that these gamemakers weren't exactly very old or important when it happened either. "But I have been told that I bear a resemblance to one of the tributes from then." It had been weird to see someone who looked so much like him fighting and dying on screen, a face that he could have seen if he had looked in the mirror. No one could or would tell him why he might look like this boy who had died before he had even been born. Had he been a relative, or was it just some crazy coincidence?

"His name was Deimos Lasner." A twitch of his lips. "Pretty close to my own name. I don't know whose sick idea that was, probably my dad's." Another shrug, he wasn't going to delve into the topic of his parents.

He bent to pick up the saw, a grotesque-looking weapon that was perfectly capable of removing limbs and biting deep into flesh with wicked-sharp teeth. "Fittingly, coming from District seven, he was given a saw." He flexed the blade, letting it spring back and wobble in his hand. "He wielded it pretty well, too, as you would expect."

Turning, he sized up two of the dummies. His first swing was aimed at the wig-wearer. This was the point where he would have to be careful and exact. This was the point where the story depended on him not showing off and holding himself in check. As precisely as possible, he made a shallow cut on the dummy's left thigh. "Akina Hooper." Still focused on the female dummy, he changed his angle and slashed again. This time the blade bit deep into the flesh of her cheek. "Sierra Birdbrook." Another slash, another shallow cut into the dummy's flesh - a score across her right hip. "And again, Sierra."

He stepped back, taking a breath and trying to remember what happened next. This was still in the bloodbath and this point was when the camera had lost sight of Deimos for a bit to focus on the other violence occurring elsewhere. Then his memory returned and he hacked the right ear off of the female dummy. "Locust Lovelace."

This next name would appear again, but he was determined to do things in order. The story was what mattered, the recollection of this boy that so many had forgotten. His next two attacks were quick, but neither were very deep - just as the real attacks had been shallow. One welt opened on the dummy's left forearm and the next appeared on her right shoulder. "Nightshade Bluesea." Finally he turned away from the female dummy, who already looked quite ragged.

He shifted the saw to his off hand and balled his now-free hand into a fist. With a big swing he clocked the lone dummy a blow directly in the mouth. The feel of the fake lip splitting was as disturbing as it was satisfying. He had managed the right amount of power to do what damage he needed while also not knocking the dummy over. Just as what had happened in real life. "Courtesy of Xanthus Grimm."

His attention was now on the dummy standing to the female's side. Circling behind him, he drove the saw into the back of the figure with a brutal thrust. "Repaid in full." Yanking the weapon free, he moved to the front of the dummy again. Another vicious cut left a deep score across the forehead of Deimos' opponent. "Drace Vandel." He had abandoned most of the dramatic pauses he had been making between attacks, letting go of the need to highlight each specific hit with as much clarity. The time for dramatics would be soon, but for now he could show the whirlwind of activity that had risen at this point.

He moved from one attack to another, saying the name of each victim as he struck the blow. Shallow cut, left bicep. "Gaff Grimsdottir." The dummy's left ear spun away, bleeding freely. "Xavier Gregory." This was the tough one to be convincing on, for it might look as though he did this on accident. In reality, the wide swing that floated past the dummy without so much as dripping blood on it was intentional. The story had to be true, and in the truth there are things that disappoint. Deimos had missed, and so he missed now. "He learned, that time." No need to mention that in the breath after Deimos' swing went wide past Xavier, his ally had come up behind and finished the other boy off with a stab to the neck. This wasn't about them, it was about Deimos.

Stepping back for a moment, he grabbed a cloth and touched it to the lone dummy's lip. Then, he wiped the blade of the saw. He left his knuckles smeared with blood and simply turned to the female dummy again. In a back-to-back two attacks he sliced a line across the throat of the female figure and then in a high-handed strike he removed the lower part of the female's right arm. "Nightshade Bluesea, again." He pushed over the female dummy to show that she had been killed once and for all.

"I can't imagine his sleep was good after that." His own dreams were terrible enough and he hadn't actually lived through any of that.

This was the tough point of the tale, the part where the ending came. He placed the saw down and retrieved the hatchet and scimitar, preparing to use the sword first. With a flick of the weapon's sharp blade he had drawn a red line down the left thigh of the dummy that was meant to be Deimos. "Motel led the attack." Switching to the hatchet, he took a heavy swing at dummy-Deimos' left knee. The blade lodged and didn't cut cleanly through. That was true to life as well, though only because of the boy's armor. That was where Deimos' luck had ended. "Erik Strauss followed."

Putting down the two weapons, he retrieved tar from the fire-making station and coated the saw in it. Lighting the weapon with flint, he held the flaming saw away from him as the unexpected heat flushed his face. This was the part he had been the least prepared for. Setting his jaw, he did his best to copy the determined, desperate attack that Deimos had done. The smell of burning the sight of the other ear of the dummy falling, singed, to the floor told him he had managed it. Of course, he had had to deviate a bit from the script as his dummy only had one left ear - which had already been severed - but he was sure the effect would be close enough to excuse the inaccuracy. "Motel paid a price."

Carefully placing the saw so it wouldn't light anything else on fire, he retrieved the aggressors' weapons. A slash of the scimitar cut a shallow wound across Deimos' stomach, and another great hack from the hatchet freed the mangled lower-half of the boy's left leg. As one would expect, the dummy fell backward from the imbalance. "Even from here he kept fighting." He took up the flaming saw again, making the final mark Deimos had left on the hip of the one dummy that was still standing. "It wasn't enough to kill Motel, though."

Instead, the two boys had circled the boy on the ground and whether they had meant it with mercy or not, they ended his life. Heavily, he retrieved the scimitar and the hatchet for a final time. He chopped with the scimitar, removing Deimos' right foot. "Motel took a trade." Then, casting the scimitar aside, he raised the axe with both hands and brought it down on the dummy's neck. The crack and shower of blood that resulted was at once familiar and unexpected. "Erik took his life."

He stood, bloodspattered and with a haunted look in his eyes. This had been so much worse than he had expected it to be. He wouldn't be able to sleep tonight.

"I recited to you ten names besides his. In the short time he was in the arena, Deimos left wounds on ten of twenty-three other tributes. He even killed one of them." He looked down at the carnage he had wrought, then up at the lone standing dummy. With a forceful shove, he sent the dummy falling to join the other two on the ground. "Erik and Motel didn't even survive after all that." There was no way to deny the bitterness in his tone. Perhaps he had invested too much into this and now it was costing him.

"His ally made it to the end, but she died too."

He shrugged awkwardly, unsure what to say now. "All that and he is hardly remembered." The twist at the corner of his mouth is not from joy or pleasure. "I look like him, I can only hope that I can leave as much of a mark as him." He finally looks at the Gamemakers again. "Though I know I'll be forgotten too, along the way."

All at once there was nothing more he could think to say and so he stopped talking. Stepping over the bodies he had strewn on the ground, he made his way out of the room.

Behind him, the flaming saw was left abandoned - just out of the grip of the dummy meant to have been its wielder.

response from GM Verena [WT] ;

You faintly remember considering, two decades ago at the side of a different young Gamemaker, whether placing these sessions all in a row is entirely fair. You have no better ideas—any other arrangement cuts into training or gives the later entries unfair preparation time—but the middle Districts inevitably feel shortchanged, arriving too late for the rush of the start and too early to still be fresh in your memory by the time you're discussing final evaluations.

That said, they don't always make it easier on themselves.

To be fair, Daemon Lazre isn't hopeless; he's efficient and confident, and he holds his chosen weapons like he's familiar with them, slicing into the dummies with careful precision. Watching him wield saw and blade and flame, you suspect you already know exactly what you're going to find when you look up the Deimos Lasner highlight reel. Elements of this performance genuinely impress you, especially coming from a Six. But a lifeless dummy doesn't put up a fight, and tributes don't stand patiently while their opponents announce themselves. He's not hopeless, no, but neither is he particularly inspiring.

"He certainly knows his history," you concede to Nilima a few minutes later, jotting a 3 on your sheet with one hand as you skim through old footage on your tablet with the other. "But I'm not entirely convinced he can recreate it where it counts."

On hills and waves on stormy days.

k!ah
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#expensivetrash

✩ public training sessions ✩ Jun 10, 2020 16:36:22 GMT -5

Quote

Post by k!ah on Jun 10, 2020 16:36:22 GMT -5

a r a b e l l a .

* * *

She bounced nervously on the balls of her feet. She was waiting for her name to be called. The private training session were in progress. Arabella had watched as tribute after tribute entered, the room becoming emptier. She took a seat next to Cyro, her eyes examining his profile for a moment. She was still a little conflicted about her feelings towards him, but as the days pass she finds herself starting to take a liking towards him. She understood why he did it, why he left in the hopes of giving his son a better life. But she still couldn't understand what life could be better for his son than one with his father present.

Sighing she turns away from him. She had to focus, focus on herself. Taking a deep breath she closes her eyes, focusing on the sound of her heartbeat in her ears. Slowly it fades, and so does her nerves. Opening her eyes she looks towards the door again. There was only four of us in the room now. Bella, Cyro and the two district 12's.

"Cyro Krane!"

The name booms around the room, and suddenly there was three.

Arabella sits in silence as she waits, trying to collect her thoughts, to organise them into something coherent. She knew what she was going to do, she was going to do what she did best:

Tell a story.

"Arabella Shirley!"

Her heart begins to race, she licks her lips before quickly climbing to her feet. She slaps her thighs, taking a deep breath, I got this. And with that thought she charges into the wolves den.

The door closes behind her with a loud thud. The room looked so large when it was empty, it was almost intimidating. "A- Arabella Shirley. D-District Eleven." Not often did Arabella stumble over words, but her nerves seemed to get the best of her. Quickly she heads over to the camouflage station, dipping her fingers into the charcoal. She runs them along her brow, under her eyes, creating a mask as such. Pleased she headed over to the fire station. She makes quick work of it, her fingers moving quickly as a small stream of smoke begins to fill the air. She makes another fire. And another. They are all lined up before the GM's, making a screen of smoke. Making it harder to spot her. More dramatic.

This story would have no words. It wouldn't need words. Quickly she sets up five dummies, spreading them out unevenly. She was creating a battle field, soldiers that she would slay before the sun had risen, before the smoke had cleared. As she heads towards the edge of the room her fingers close around a bunch of throwing knives. At the edge of the room her story starts.

She imagines that she is a warrior princess. She creeping around the room, darting behind stands. The enemy was on her tail. She was on the run, thrown from her throne. Tossed to the side like trash. Fury burned through her, it pulsed through her veins. She sees the first soldier. He approaches slowly, but she moves like a feline, dangerously- her foot knocks over a bucket of arrow heads. A loud clutter fills the air. Arabella curses, ducking behind a pillar. Taking a deep breath she regains her composure and suddenly she is not in the training room, but back on the run, smoke filling the air. Her hand tightens around one of the knives, she pulls it from the rest prepare to send it slicing through the air, penetrating the soldier. Ducking out of her hiding place the knife leaves her fingers, soaring through space and time- it hits the dummy and clatters to the ground.

Opps.

Never to mind, she had six more chances.

She slinks past the fallen soldier, her eyes barely even meeting his dead eyes before she moves onto the next. The smoke was starting to thin, as the small fire she had built begin to die down. She had to move faster. The warrior princess dashes past another soldier, flicking a knife as she went. It strikes, and he falls to the ground. Dead. The knife plunges into the dummies bicep, it doesn't fall. It sinks deep. Another one down.

Still not perfect, but getting closer. The warrior stalks her next prey. The warrior was alert, looking around himself, his weapon raised. He knew her description, knew what she was capable. He had heard the stories, of the warrior princess who took down a whole army by herself. She moved like a viking, she was strong. She was beautiful. She was dangerous.

With the the cry of battle she sends another knife flying through the air. It was fast, so fast that the warrior had no chance at dodging. It lodges itself between the eyes. The soldiers eyes go blank, and he falls to the ground with a thud. The knife left her fingers, it buries itself in the dummies stomach. She barely wastes any time before she lunges towards two more soldiers, a knife in each hand she sinks the blades deep into the soldiers chest. She tumbles to the ground with a grunt, the dummies tumbling down around her. Not the landing of the graceful warrior she was trying to portray.

One more to go. One knife left. She would finish the story with a bang.

The last soldier was the biggest. He held a sword that was fit for a king. But she was a queen in her own right. She would take him down. She dashes between two pillar, her eyes examining the area before her. She pulls out the last knife. It was beautiful, sleek, black. Death. Arabella takes a deep breath. She steadies herself. The warrior steps out of her hiding place, her fingers clasped around the knifes handle. Her eyes meets the eyes of the soldier. He raises his blade, but it's too late, her knife was already soaring through the air. It penetrates his neck, blood spills out. So much blood. It rains down him, soaking his uniform. He falls to his knees, before hitting the ground hard. The knife sinks into the dummies eye. She had landed the perfect shot.

The smoke begins to settle, the fires burnt out.

The warrior princess was back on her throne.

Arabella walks from the room.

Response from Gamemaker Nilima Rao [Thundy]

______________________

But lover, you’re the one to blame, all that you’re doing
Can you hear the violence?
Megaphone to my chest

Poor Arabella Shirley.

At the end of the day, Nilima is tired. She rests her hand against her cheek as Arabella enters the room. The tribute looks nervous. If she had a bit more empathy, Nilima might almost, almost feel bad for her.

But she doesn’t. She’s just tired and annoyed when Arabella stutters through her own name.

Honestly, she’s seen enough. The only reason Nilima doesn’t tune out the girl right then and there is that this is her job, so she at least has to half-ass it enough to see if the girl’s got anything that will help her survive.

If nothing else, the fire is enough to keep the Gamemaker alert. Arabella sets fires across the training center floor, shrouding the room in smoke. Nilima coughs through the haze.

Is the fire alarm going to go off? she wonders, but it doesn’t. The flames dwindle quickly, enough for Nilima to see that Arabella Shirley’s attempts at battle fall short of impressive.

Darn.

Her form needs work, but at least she’ll fight. Making mistakes in the Arena is quite literally the difference between life and death. Nilima does not suspect that the girl will survive more than a couple of days, but she’s been surprised before.

She writes a 6 next to her name.

lyrics from The Louvre by Lorde

✮ UPAT ✮

cass
Retired Staff

4,822 POSTS

last seen Oct 24, 2021 18:11:43 GMT -5

✩ public training sessions ✩ Jun 10, 2020 20:53:13 GMT -5

Quote

Post by cass on Jun 10, 2020 20:53:13 GMT -5

meredith strauss . 2f . PTS

She had one goal for her Personal Training Session: get the lowest score possible.

That’d piss Victor off.

She was a ball of spite and mess, she had aligned herself with both members of district eleven and a drunk from district five. It made her gleeful, had her chuckling as she walked into the chaos around her. The idea of Victor fuming was a prize she would savour. Killian had taught them not to make dumb choices, so she had thrown away his instructions, making the stupidest choices she could. Octavia would be growing grey hair as she watched Meredith butcher every sentence she spoke. Meredith had made sure to grin, looking right into the camera as she picked her nose in the middle of her interview.

She was going to drag the name Strauss through the mud, she was going to make sure they were ashamed of it. Every single soul in district two -no all over Panem, would know and would hate the name with her.

When they called her name she walked into the room, she no longer felt the anxiety that had clawed at her chest the train ride into the Capitol. After the interview she had found herself breathing again, feeling like the person she had been when Anabelle had still been alive. She missed the girl that had played pranks on Agnes, the girl that had laughed and joked and lived her life without fear.

There was a chair at one of the stations off to the side, and Meredith sauntered over to it. It was made of aluminum and she found herself grinning in delight as she grabbed onto it. She started to drag the chair along the concrete ground, an ear-piercing screech filling the empty space of the Centre as she walked. She paused for a moment, giving the Gamemakers a quick salute before she continued, the high-pitched yell resonating until she reached an empty space about ten seconds later. Pulling the chair around she sat down on it with a huff, she crossed one leg over the other before turning her grey eyes over to the Gamemakers.

“How’s it going?” She asked. “I’ll bet you guys have a busy day ahead of you.”

"Not so bored," Nilima said. "Yet."

There was a warning behind her words and Meredith raised an eyebrow, smirking. These two were nowhere near as scary or terrifying as Victor. She glanced down at the scar that ran from her elbow to her hand, she could remember the way Victor had pinned her down, dragging the blade along her flesh, until she had stopped screaming. He had said that the only way to learn how to accept pain was to endure it. She had a matching scar on her other arm after she had failed to hold in her agony. It hadn’t taken long for her to learn to internalise it, wear it behind a mask.

Verena laughed along with Nilima’s comment, she seemed friendly, but it felt like the same facade that Octavia would wear in front of the people she hated. Meredith found herself smiling, as she spoke, "I don't want a good score, I'm here to piss off my family," she paused for a moment, looking a little uncertain. "I know what I'm capable of, I know I can fight, but I need your help to achieve this goal." She felt like a beggar, asking for the help of people who could walk all over her.

Verena seemed to want to indulge her, her tone was friendly, but Meredith had played for so long with Octavia that she struggled to distinguish between genuineness and weaponized words. "Explain why we should cooperate with you."

The woman beside her glanced at her counterpart, pursing her black lips. The intricately designed curls around her head bounced with the movement, and Meredith could imagine the awe that Octavia would have for the design. The makeup is a bold contrast to the bright clothing she wore, similar to the clothing Octavia forced her to wear when she had watched Anabelle get slaughtered by Finn last year.

“Your goal is interesting enough, but I want to be fascinated.”

Meredith sighed, leaning back in her chair as she looked at them both. Frowning she bit her lip, mulling over the best way to approach the question. In all honesty, she had just hoped they’d accept her request, believing that handing out a low score really wouldn’t be too bothersome. "You want a story, I want to tell one. It's the games, and I want to be entertainment." She crossed one of her legs over her knee, "create a story with me. If you want a villain I can be one, if you want a hero or an underdog, well, I've been acting my entire life."

Octavia would be impressed, and she hated that, she was just thankful that this was something Octavia would never have to see. "I can tell that you're both appreciative of appearance, careful about each element of a design and how it creates a whole piece, what it tells the world." She knew exactly what she wanted to tell the world. That the name Strauss was nothing powerful, nothing special, it was a name covered in dogshit.

It would never bring you glory, Victor.

Nilima looked at her, peering down over the railing, "as long as it's a good story, you can tell it however you'd like."

“We'll think about your request." Verena said, her tone was final, a dismissal. Meredith stood up, giving them her most dramatic bow. She glanced up in time to see Verene acknowledge it with a small nod before she walked out.

Meredith Strauss, bold and angry, fifteen and thinking herself silver-tongued, could almost be one of your students. You can't help but smile at her, thinking of the eighteen-year-olds who stumble into your freshman seminar every year for no better reason than flouting family tradition—fledglings less interested in the possibilities of the field than in infuriating adults who pushed for engineering, earth sciences, perhaps the arts. Some of them suffocate under the realization that biology asks more of them than smiling at pictures of cute animals. Others, fueled by spite and freed from the expectations weighing on their childhoods, thrive.

Until she's in the Arena, you have no way to tell for certain which group Meredith will fall into—whether the hint of uncertainty shining through her little speech will keep her in the first, or whether the determined confidence in the way she holds herself will carry her to the second. But you know you're looking forward to finding out.

"Kids," you say indulgently to Nilima as soon as the door closes. "I''ll play along if you will."

It feels strange to smile at penning a 1 beside a District Two name.

wimdy
Capitol Resident

1,014 POSTS
Pronouns: she/her
last seen Feb 14, 2021 19:20:55 GMT -5

(While On a Horse) I Met a Hot Girl Who Reminded Me of a Plant

✩ public training sessions ✩ Jun 10, 2020 21:06:44 GMT -5 via mobile

Quote

Post by wimdy on Jun 10, 2020 21:06:44 GMT -5

Her left thumb runs circles over the raw skin around the cuticle of her right, fingers all tangled and clasped up together as she wrings her hands. There are only five of them left sitting in the room, Oberon probably already finished and gone, on his way back upstairs to the apartments. It's just the five of them from the lower district left, and Kahinta's mouth quirks at a stray thought. She and Oberon are sticking together, but it strikes her funny that she'd found comfort in almost exclusively the lower districts during the past two weeks. Cyro sits to her right, and Arabella beside him, and Callum beside her. All familiar faces, save for the last among them. She doesn't remember Callum's partner's name, but it doesn't truly matter anyway. Luck permitting, the girl will gone before Kahinta will have to put in the effort to care.

They're not far out now, and despite the very slight interaction she's had with the other three, that little bit that shouldn't matter when she knows it will all be tossed aside come their turn in the Arena, she finds herself hoping they'll be dead before she faces them as well.

"District Ten, Kahinta Jones. Please report for individual assessment."

A moment of hesitation, hands still folded together, then Kahinta sucks in a short breath and rocks onto her feet. She turns her head briefly to the other four, nodding quickly when she catches eyes with Cyro and gets a kind smile in return, her own face set in an unaffected mask as she heads for the hall that leads further in. In the in between, the relative darkness of the hallway, her hands fidget to straighten the uniform zip-up they've given her, and swipe the sweat of her hands onto her thighs, and pluck her hair from her eyes to tuck behind her ears. Tremors sew cracks across her bones, and she has to focus to settle her breathing with her eyes closed, toes curled tight in her shoes.

It takes her a moment, breathing as deep as she can manage until her ribs nearly ache with it, before she feels steady enough to walk again, to face this stupid plan of hers head on without wasting any time.

Mace is going to be furious when he finds out.

When she enters, Kahinta doesn't bother to look up towards the observation box that the Gamemakers and their assistants sit in. She doesn't have to. She knows what she'll find up there well enough from what the others have said. All of the planners, the architects of the Games are living their dream, watching those they deem small dance for them upon a fuel-soaked stage. It doesn't matter to them. No, no, it matters to them, but not in the way that it should. Their lives are centered on constructing the perfect spotlight moment for a person to set themself ablaze.

Kahinta wants to see them go up in flames instead.

Unfortunately for her, and quite fortunately for them, Kahinta has never been very good with fire, and while she'd be doing better with getting a small one started during training, it certainly wasn't going to be anything she'd be able to literally burn the Training Center down with in such a short amount of time. Bombs were also off the table. There wasn't enough time or material for her to actually send them some sort of message while she had their attention, and it did her no favors to step onto the stage they'd built for her just yet, so she'd just build her own.

Once, her tiny body would have cried at the indignity of putting in such effort, but the years had been a teacher she had never expected to learn from in the ways that she had. Night after night on end of moving crates of supplies with Orcus, and taking on bigger jobs at the farm as her growth spurt had hit, and racing through the streets well after dark when she was meant to be in her bed. Kahinta had learned she could be more than song and sweetness after she'd had no other choice but to learn that song and sweetness didn't alone bring salvation. No amount of her joy could stop the Peacekeepers from punishing a family for stealing supplies when they were going hungry, but maybe strength could, in its many forms.

There are tables loaded with supplies for her use all around the room, some larger with arrays of weapons, or smaller ones loaded with other tools for things like fire-making. She heads directly towards one of the larger ones, sweeping away gear that lands with a clatter, and curls her fingers into the underside of the table, dragging it steadily across the floor until it sits in front of the observation room above. A repeat, and another, two tables dragged beside it and a storm of scattered equipment piled in the distance, and Kahinta uses a rope to bind the parallel legs together, nudging the tables to make sure they're steady. Her eyes flit quickly up above, just a moment, trailing swiftly over two severe, focused faces amongst the light, before she heads back across the room for another two tables.

Leveraging them up takes a little more time than simply dragging them over, and she squats to lift the back legs onto the platform surface of the existing tables and shoves forward until the table sits directly over one of the edge tables of the base. The next one she settles beside it, the tables forming together into a massive stair. Rope coils round the legs, and then below to the legs of the base to stabilize. It's tedious in a way that reminds her of building and fixing fences back home, tying secure knots to ensure her work won't come undone as she shifts all around it, hefting another of the larger tables up onto the base, and then onto the layer above that, another level of the stair leading up, another set of table legs to bind, another broken post to fix as Temple and ma and pa set to work further down the line with work that little girls are too soft to do.

How she longs for days of softness over a strength that had bound her hands so tightly together that she could not find a way to hold her sister closer.

The rope holds everything in place even as she works another table, this one smaller, but the same height, into place atop the level prior. After fixing it much the same, Kahinta hops down each section, brushing off her hands as she makes her way back towards the trapping station to find more rope, turning her head to the ceiling to judge the height to the rafters, and snagging a length that seems appropriate. She ties a quick loop while walking and then quickly drapes the entire length over her neck with quick, practices motions, doubling the rope over and over until it rests against her shoulders in an approximation of neatness. There's a little fatigue setting in now that the lifting is done, and she can feel it that faint bit in her back and in her knees as she makes her way back toward her construction, grabbing a chair as she goes and making her way toward the very top.

Once she sets the chair atop the last table, she turns her back on the observation window she's now even with, uncoiling the rope by her feel until she holds the loop unimpeded in her hand. With a practiced ease of a girl who was born and raised in a district that demands you know how to lasso a cow, her hands twirl the loop in a few quick circles before casting it out towards the nearest rafter, watching it sling overtop as she lets the length travel out so it can swing back to her. Her toes brush the very edge of the table, her breath catching on a hitch as she feels the possibility of a short, unexpected fall. It's not very high, but it wouldn't do to sprain her ankle on so close to the Games. Kahinta reaches out a hand to snag the end and draw it back, threading the unlooped end through the loop and pulling until the line fixes and the rope doesn't budge when she tugs. Without giving herself time to second-guess, she turns and readjusts the chair so that it directly faces the window, and sits down in it, finally looking up to meet her audience face to face.

A plague of vipers, and before them, Verena Halitrephes and Nilima Rao.

It's so strange, she thinks, face a passive mask of careful neutrality that Libertas had told her would keep her safe under pressure. Kahinta can certainly feel the weight dropping into place all around her as she settles carefully on the chair, crossing her legs at her ankles and tucking them beneath her like she used to do when she would pretend she was a princess when she was very young and could hardly see the world for all the roses she chose to smell instead. It's so strange, seeing these Capitolites, these people so close, nothing but the few feet of space and air between them, and yet a true chasmic divide, farther and deeper than the Capitol's rail system could ever fathom to traverse. They both look so steadfast, so comfortable in their judgement, that Kahinta finds her mind whirling at the thought that they're truly so disengaged from the people who die for their performance year after year. How could they be so callous? The older of the two, Verena, smiles at her with a blank sincerity so familiar that Kahinta can feel herself matching the expression without thought.

Strange.

Beyond the hum of electricity, the mild buzz of the force field between them and the lights above, it is quiet. For once, she is able to still the compulsion to pick at her fingers, both hands resting placidly across her lap. All three of them, silent and watching.

Waiting for a show.

She doesn't know how long they sit there, quiet hostility veiled in careful calm. Minutes, but they stretch in the discomfort of a conversation unwilling to be spoken, a skill unwilling to be shared. Kahinta blinks, willing her breathing to remain even. Strange, she thinks again, watching the wheels that turn beyond her sight, the little details that add together to put her where she is without her knowing. How much had they already learned of her? Had Verena and Nilima themselves plucked her from the nest of rebellion, seeking to make an example of her on a grand scale? They couldn't have almost any of the tributes from the 80th any longer, but a sibling was good fodder for the crowd. How long had they studied the families of Panem, crafting their perfect tableau to set their audience afire in their rapture?

Her stomach sours at the thought, and Kahinta tilts her head minutely, blinking once slowly before narrowing her eyes just a fraction.

"I'm sorry, were you expecting something?"

There's hardly any hesitation, no expression change in either reply she receives, Verena first and Nilima quick to bite in her wake.

"Should we? This part is your show. Do what you like."

"No, my expectations for you were low."

Kahinta's lips curl in the beginning of a grin, controlled in its kindness despite the twist in her gut. Her eyes settle on Verena first, mouth forming around words too soft to be venom in tone, but sharp in their implication all the same. Vipers, the lot of them. Ripred help the lambs caught between.

"If we were truly doing what I'd like, you wouldn't be here for very much longer, now would you?" she asks, though she doesn't expect or leave room for reply as she turns her attention to Nilima, eyes crinkling a little as her lips lift further into a toothless smile.

Of course they already had their favorites. Probably had their picks for winner all wrapped up in a bow, just waiting to play the cards in their hand to guide the story where they please. It's about the narrative of it all. Kahinta Jones is not supposed to win, and she can see that writing on the wall as clear as she can see the bland disaffectedness of calculation in Nilima's eyes.

"Mmm, I'm sure," she hums, tapping her index finger twice against the back of her opposite hand as she gathers her words beneath her tongue. Her score was set to be low, just as designed. She's not sure blowing up the Training Center would have given her any points in the eyes of the Capitol, and she is more than certain it would have made no effect on the pre-determined values that the Gamemakers had already placed on them all. It didn't matter; she didn't matter. It's no surprise, but it stings all the same.

With a put-upon sigh, Kahinta uncrosses her ankles and sets her feet flat against the surface of the topmost table again, readying to stand. "Well, you know about as much as I'd like you to, for the time being, so I suppose I'll have to live with the disappointment that you think so little of me. Pity."

She keeps her eyes on them for just a moment more, the heaviness of the realization that this is the last time she'll likely see these two woman sinking in, her expression easing naturally from that crafted smile as she stands and turns away. Their faces may appear among the crowd at her interview with Caesar Flickerman, but she doubts it. Women like them have little time for frivolous things like games.

The rope still hangs by the opposite edge of the table, and Kahinta gently moves the chair aside until it topples over and off the edge out of her way so that she can cross to the other side. Grabbing on, she swings out until she's clear of her stage altogether, and slides down as quickly as her skin will allow her on the rope, feet touching concrete after just a moment. She's sure-footed as she walks away, refuses to look back as she steps gingerly over all of the spilled equipment across the floor in the wake of her construction, and towards the far door that will take her back to what remains to her of District Ten.

2429 oops

I'll edit in response later, but she got a 5 for Sass.

Baby Wessex d9b [earthling]
Administrator

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Pronouns: She/Her
last seen Nov 10, 2024 11:48:08 GMT -5

cameron stood in line for an hour for a stupid ride for me <3 best <3

✩ public training sessions ✩ Jun 10, 2020 21:29:22 GMT -5

Quote

Post by Baby Wessex d9b [earthling] on Jun 10, 2020 21:29:22 GMT -5

HELLEMINE CAUCHEMAR
DISTRICT SEVEN FEMALE TRIBUTE
85TH HUNGER GAMES

Hellemine Cauchemar had sins to atone for.

Specifically, her time in the Capitol leading up this very moment.

“District Seven Tribute, Female,” the tinny speaker in the bowels of the Training Center declared. As Helle rose to knobby knees, she reached out to pat JJ’s arm reassuring, but ended up smacking him lightly across the face. At least he had a nice, soft nose. That was probably the least awkward, painful thing that would happen in the next sixty minutes.

Adrenaline flooded her, head to toe, the moment she stepped into the training arena. It felt like a full-body tickle. Energizing, to be sure, but also slightly uncomfortable. Helle crossed the room, drawing close to the Gamemakers nest, squirming in her ill-fitting uniform. She sketched something approximating a bow, realigned her spine, and never quite looked at any of them.

“Yo,” she said, lifting her chin towards one of the attending trainers.

He stepped out of the lineup, a curious little smile on his face.

“Just like we rehearsed, yeah?” Helle whispered.

He nodded, then came to stand at attention before the Gamemakers.

Meanwhile, Helle scrambled. She dragged two metal chairs over, arranging them interview style, then raided the Plants station. She brought over a small black pot filled with soil, then went back to unplug one of the LED lamps. She dragged that over too. The plug wouldn’t reach an outlet, but it was better than no spotlight. She trained the unlit bulb on one of the chairs and finally plopped into it.

The trainer sat himself far more gracefully. “Welcome to the Capitol,” he rumbled in a fair approximation of Caesar Flickerman’s intonation. “It’s Hellemine, right?”

“Hell-uh,” she said, tucking one foot under her thigh. “The ‘mine’ was never really… mine.”

The trainer gamely laughed, just like Caesar would do.

Or would have done, during their mock interview the day prior, if she hadn’t been so massively hungover. The memory of the mock interview - that is, the memory of watching the recording of it, which was supposed to be used to perfect the event for the cameras, but in her case, was used as evidence that it had actually happened, according to her mentors. She sure as hell didn’t remember any of it - made her cheeks pink. She had looked an absolute disaster: hair brushed into a fluffy mullet by her well meaning stylist, blacker-than-a-hole sunglasses, lips dry and colorless, her chin doing its best to sink into the leafy scarf wrapped several times around her throat. The only redeeming part of her appearance was the sleek dress Colt had slipped her into. It hadn’t been much of a squeeze, on account of the fact that she’d been neck-deep in a toilet most of the morning.

Caesar had tried to engage with her, but quickly realized she was incapacitated. He switched tactics, asking yes/no answers. She hazarded her way through a few before he mercifully cut to a clip of her volunteering.

It wasn’t a very long clip.

But the stage lights were warm.

The white couch was soft.

All she really needed was a few moments to collect herself.

At least, Helle hoped that was her last coherent thought before she’d curled up into a ball on the couch and fell fast asleep.

When Colt had shaken her awake a minute later, a string of drool had stuck to the couch.

In the Center and (more or less) in the present, Helle shifted to tuck the opposite foot under the opposite thigh. “Can we skip the pleasantries?”

The trainer steepled his fingers, embracing the part. “This is, as they say, your story. What do you want to tell us?”

“Hobbies,” Helle blurted, cued to a slightly different question. Her pale brow furrowed. “Uh. I mean, I want to tell you about what I do when I’m not, you know, having to do something, like school or work. My extracurriculars.”

“Are you sure?”

Helle’s green eyes sharpened. She dropped both feet to the floor, unconsciously squaring herself to the trainer. This was not what they had rehearsed. “I’m sure,” she purred, heart hammering, doing her best to meet the challenge.

He sighed in a good approximation of boredom.

“Hey!” Helle stood. “Get it together, my dude!”

“Look, I’m trying to help you. It’s not going to work. They,” he said, leaning his head towards the Gamemaker’s perch, “aren’t going to be persuaded by a gimmick.”

Helle’s jaw unhinged. “A gimmick?? You know what, fuck you. Apparently I’m not ‘interview material’.” Accompanying air quotes were directed towards the Gamemakers. Helle mumbled to herself as she rounded on the other materials she had dragged out.

The trainer rolled his eyes. “No one’s afraid of your pot, Hell-”

“It’s a cauldron,” she corrected him, her voice tight, quiet, deadly. Helle plunged her skinny fingers into the appropriated earth, turning it over, making it new. Then from her pocket, she drew out a packet. Very, very carefully she ripped open one corner, then dumped the feathery white seed pods into the soil. Cautiously, she pushed dirt over the top, covering them, taking care not to touch the pods.

“Oleander,” she declared. “I’m sure Trainer-of-the-Year here can tell you all about its properties, how it’s used as a poison. I knew that, before I got here, if it matters. Poisonous plants I dig,” she paused to wink slowly. “But even after a week here hanging out at the Plants Station, I still can’t figure out which ones to eat. Flora should be for enacting, not for consuming. You wanna know if someone’s lying? Time to break out the moonshine. You wanna know who’s been sneaking around your room when you’re out? Slather a little poison oak on the door knob.” She looked significantly at the Trainer.

Then finally, Helle lifted her gaze to meet Gamemaker Rao’s and then Gamemaker Halitrephes’ eyes. “You wanna kill someone?”

She held her breath, then burst out laughing. “I’m KIDDING! Of course you do! Here’s a little gift, from what one witch to another.” Helle clapped, applauding herself, then circled the planted cauldron three times. “It just needs a little water to grow, right?”

“For you, Nilimia Rao.”

Helle spit into the dirt.

“For you, Verena Helitrephes.”

Helle spit into the dirt.

“For you, Innocent Fitztucker.”

Trainer Fitztucker started out of the chair, his face going pale.

Helle spit into the dirt.

She gave a little wave to the nest, then used the back of the same hand to wipe the spittle from her lips. At the exit, she paused. “Uhm. Yeah. Turns out, it takes Oleander years to grow. Guess you won’t be poisoning anyone with my gift these Games. Oh, did I say ‘gift’?”

Helle grinned and it never touched her eyes. “I meant curse. Enjoy!”

______________________

But lover, you’re the one to blame, all that you’re doing
Can you hear the violence?
Megaphone to my chest

Just over halfway through the list of tributes, and Nilima was already getting bored. This was a problem for a number of reasons.

1) She greatly disliked being bored;
2) There were still many tributes to present their, uh, talents; and
3) They were orchestrating an event for the Capitol’s entertainment.

Where was the drama? The aesthetic? That special something that would reel in viewers and make their Games unforgettable? Not for the first time, Nilima was thankful that they were putting together a Quell, not a normal Games. Otherwise, it might be a snoozefest with their current batch.

Nevertheless, Nilima sat back in her chair as the next tribute -- the District Seven female, Hellemine Cauchemar -- entered the room. She dragged chairs and other objects to her desired location, then grabbed the attention of one of the trainers. For a moment, Nilima expected them to fight (but with chairs? or something?), but no. Hellemine seemed to be participating in a sort-of interview.

It was not going well.

Nilima lost interest quickly, but her ears perked up as Hellemine gave up on the trainer, who clearly didn’t want to go along with whatever gimmick she’d dreamt up.

And then she started talking about plants. Then there was some spitting, and something about a curse, and Nilima was too disgusted to keep on paying attention.

After some deliberation with Verena, she wrote a 2 beside Hellemine’s name.

lyrics from The Louvre by Lorde

credit umber vivuus 12b 🥀 [dars]

credit ✨ zozo.

- chars -

kap
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trans rights are human rights <3

✩ public training sessions ✩ Jun 10, 2020 21:32:45 GMT -5

Quote

Post by kap on Jun 10, 2020 21:32:45 GMT -5

OOC Note: My apologies for... this.

I may be an artist, but what I had in store for my private training session was far from art. It all would start out simple. I had an idea in my head that I prepared for before heading down to where I needed to be, which was in the part of the training center where our private training sessions would take place. I sat in a waiting area, shifting in my seat as I was a combination of nervous and the slightest little bit excited for what was about to happen.

I wasn't someone who was used to being judged on performance. I took criticism on my art here and there, yes, but I didn't typically ask someone to specifically critique me and give me a score or rating of any sort. This was totally new to me. Then again, I imagined that it was likely something that would be considered quite new to most of the tributes here, unless they were careers, in which case, I had no idea.

Who knew what career tributes did in their training aside from careers themselves? Us lower District folks never did that sort-of stuff, so who knew if they were used to rating or scoring each other on their skills? If they were, maybe this whole 'private training session' would come easier to them than it did to the rest of us.

It took me all night to decide what to do for this damn private training session. I'd tried to run through all the things I learned in the training center in my head, but it took ages to actually decide which skills I wanted to utilize in order to show off to the judges, or, perhaps I should refer to them as who they really are, the Gamemakers.

As I sat in waiting, mentally preparing myself for my turn in front of the Gamemakers to be scored, I watched each tribute before me enter and leave the room, some more confident looking than others both before and after the fact. Some went in with a look of "I'm gonna kill this" on their face and left with the opposite attitude. Others did the reverse. Then, there were some who were confident-seeming both upon entrance and exit, and some who seemed terrified all the while.

There was another type of attitude that some of the tributes had, too, which I suppose was the category I'd place myself into, and that was those tributes who didn't know what to think. I didn't look confident going into the room, but I didn't look scared, either. I had a sort-of neutral, not sure what to think expression on my face.

When the District Eight girl was done with her session, my name was called.

"Pisces Gem, District Nine."

I stood up from the seat I had been waiting in and went over to the door of the room I was to enter. I pulled it open, went inside as it slammed shut behind me, and strode to the center of the large room. I smiled at the Gamemakers, waved and then turned away from them for a moment, heading over towards one of the survival stations.

Gathering a tarp, I then went back over to the center of the room and laid it out on the floor in front of me. I then stood on the tarp and untied my left boot. Taking my foot out of the boot, I then removed a small, packaged pastry from within it. It was a bit squished, but still in the package and mostly in one piece. Therefore, I deemed it to still be edible. I'd smuggled it from the dining hall. Learning that smuggling station had come in handy.

Then, I proceeded to do the same with my right boot, taking it off and revealing a small packaged pastry within that one as well. I set both of the pastries on the tarp in front of me, then moving on to rolling up each of my pant legs. Underneath my right pant leg, tucked within my sock, was a plastic fork. I removed it from its hiding place and set it on the tarp. The left side, in the same place, was hiding a plastic knife. I placed that on the tarp, too.

Pulling a package of fruit gummies from my waistband, I then reached around behind myself. Thankfully, the trousers they gave us to wear in the training center were quite stretchy, so I could reach what I needed to.

I won't explicitly say where I pulled the next item from, but I'm sure you can figure it out, as it was behind me, and not exactly hidden within my clothes, but somewhere a bit more intimate. That's all I'll say about the location of this spoon that I extracted, closed up in a zipper-top plastic bag. I set it in front of me on the tarp and sat down.

My hidden picnic had been revealed. I threw my arms up in a 'tada' sort of way, stood back up from where I was sitting and half-waddled out of the room, a sense of discomfort coming from my backside as I left.

Thank Ripred this was a private training session. I can only imagine what Panem would think if that last part of things were televised.

table by Rave <3

______________________

But lover, you’re the one to blame, all that you’re doing
Can you hear the violence?
Megaphone to my chest

Nilima didn't expect much from the District Nine boy.

Not that she actually knew much about him or anything, she just had this preconceived notion that District Nine really didn’t do much of note. How long was it since they had a victor? She checked her notes. Ah, yes, Colgate. He hadn’t brought a tribute back yet, and Nilima had an inkling that the current crop of tributes from Nine wouldn’t fare much better.

Still… she shooed away her preconceived notions and waited as he entered the room. Maybe he would surprise her.

And surprise her he did. Just… not in a way that made much sense.

It was as the boy was taking off his shoes that she asked herself: what skill is this even demonstrating?

The boy was like a magician pulling an endless stream of supplies out of a hat. A fun trick of the eye, but -- oh my god.

She stopped, mouth wide in disbelief.

Did he just pull a SPOON out of --

Oh my god.

Nilima gagged, turning away as the boy exited the room.

“Gross, gross, gross,” she said, writing a 2 next to the boy’s name with contempt.

lyrics from The Louvre by Lorde

Last Edit: Jun 10, 2020 21:35:33 GMT -5 by kap: added table credit

lance
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gay and chaotic? call it gayos

✩ public training sessions ✩ Jun 10, 2020 21:44:53 GMT -5

Quote

Post by lance on Jun 10, 2020 21:44:53 GMT -5

KENJI

There's mixed feelings flowing through your brain when you step past the doors and onto the stainless steel of the training center floor. Half of you is annoyed, tired, exasperated that you've been reduced to nothing more than a plaything, a showboy to put on entertainment for the masses instead of being allowed to do what you do best. And yes, you are fully aware that you literally signed up for it and allowed yourself to be taken away by the pageantry as well as the power-grabs, but that didn't mean you had to like it. Once you were in the arena where the audience wouldn't be a distraction, then you'd truly feel at home.

But the other half of you was strangely excited. Yes, this was still an event with a live audience, but that live audience numbered exactly two. And unlike many other Capitolites, from what you've been able to gather, Gamemakers are a different breed entirely. Ruthless, creative - sure, they might look down on you like so many others throughout your life have, but at least they wouldn't waste your time with empty cheers and worthless platitudes.

And besides, it wasn't as if you would have to prove that you could pretend to wield a weapon after a week's worth of training or name off every plant that could kill you from memory. Here, you were not only able to do only what you were best at - you were encouraged to.

So naturally, you'd requested the hand-to-hand trainer as your opponent. Because hadn't that been the reason you'd volunteered in the first place? Well, aside from the crippling monotony of poverty that awaited you had you hadn't, anyways. Aside from that, this was what you had come here to do. Fight, have fun, and claim dominance over the best.

You barely acknowledge the Gamemakers besides a quick nod - and why should you? Right now, they were merely distractions. Instead, you focus on the trainer, a tall, muscular man with a square jaw set in something that looked like determination. You'd sparred with him a dozen times over the past week, keeping your movements fresh and supple, an ample distraction from the boring mental exercises that you had struggled with time and time again and a refreshing distraction whenever swinging around polearms or swords became too much to handle.

There's a hint of a smirk on your face as you step into the arena, peel off your shirt, tape your hands together. "Sup, trainer man," you say by way of greeting once you're prepped, dropping into your familiar stance - one leg and arm forward, the other held back in reserve.

"Tribute Nakamura." There's no emotion in the trainer's face or tone, which from what you've gathered over the past week adds up. In the street fights of Five or elsewhere, you'd never seen a man so powerfully built - or so resembling a stone wall in terms of personality. For all you knew, he was secretly a robot created in some fancy ass lab deep beneath the bowels of the Capitol, such was his demeanor. "How would you like to proceed today?"

Same question as each time before that. No small talk or witty banter. Just a question of what to focus on and how easy he should go on you for each time. And every time, you'd turned the steam on just a little more, left each session with a few more bumps and bruises.

This time, you'd turn the nozzle all the way up.

"It's my training session, trainer man," you said, starting a light bounce on your feet. "Hit me with everything you've got."

If the man was surprised by such a request, it was only shown in the subtle raise of one eyebrow. "Everything?" he repeated.

Your smirk grew wider, as you let the confidence flow through you. Perhaps too much confidence. But you were a fighter, and the harder the challenge, the more your blood began to boil in anticipation. "Did I stutter? Yeah man, what's the point of showing off if you make it too easy for me?"

Ooooooh, this was going to be fun. You hadn't had a proper fight with no holds barred in since before the Reaping. Which really wasn't a long time, but given that you had the patience of a bolt of lightning, well, it added up over time.

"Very well." The trainer dropped into his own fighting stance, both arms held in front of him in a defensive posture. "Begin when you are ready."

Oh, you were more than ready. With a pause of exactly a second and a half, you rush forward and lash a fist out against his form, and the conflict begins.

For a few rounds, you're actually able to hold your own. Someone with your stature in your profession gets used to being tossed around and out-muscled by bigger, stronger foes, so you learn how to use your size to your advantage, darting around and dodging blows with speed while you whittle them down from the outside.

And for a moment, you're having the time of your life. But there's a difference between a skinny street-fighter kid from Five and a well-muscled adult man when it comes to talent and raw strength, and slowly, you find that you're unable to keep up the pace that the trainer is setting.

But still you maintain that confidence, that smirk, because goddammnit you're having so much fun, until one slip turns painful. Which, to be fair, you didn't see the fist until it was already coming towards your face - and by that point, it was too late, because it had hit you with the force of a sledgehammer.

An expletive is torn from your lungs as you stagger backwards, both hands rushing up towards the point of impact now blossoming in a heat wave of pain. Gingerly, you pat away, and after a couple of seconds you determine that, while your nose hasn't been broken - a feeling you are all too aware of - you were hit with enough force that blood has started leaking forth like a river overflowing a dam.

You look from the crimson red on your hands back to the trainer, who has given you a momentary pause to collect your bearings, and grin wolfishly. "Now that's what I'm talkin' about," you say. Another wipe off your face comes away red, but you don't care - you've shed more than enough blood to let it affect you this time.

Unfortunately, after that hit, everything went downhill. You were good, yes, years of practice allowing you to keep up and land a hit here and there on this master of personal combat, but there were some things that age and skill and size just weren't able to overcome. You knew how to draw out a conflict, let your opponent tire out before you went in for the finishing strike, but in this scenario, letting up for even a second meant getting your ass kicked halfway across the room.

So you push, even as the fun melts away in a wave of lactic acid and the hits on your body become bruises that you already know are going to hurt like a motherfucker in the morning. Twice, you're knocked down on your back, given a chance to rest or bow out like a lesser person would.

You're not a lesser person. What you lack in size you make up for in spirit. And though with each blow you're a little slower, a little weaker, still, you push through, until your feet are dragging in molasses and your arms feel weighted down with lead.

When you get knocked down for a third time, you forget for a moment why you even bothered. Sure, you're famous for biting off more than you can chew more times than not and paying the price for it, but this was something else. This was getting your ass kicked in front of two people that would judge you harshly and accordingly for it, and would change your fate around as a result.

And for a second, you forget why you volunteered. You forget that you're a hard-ass street fighter with nothing to lose and everything to gain. You forget everything except you're a small, broken down boy heading to his death.

But the second of vulnerability fades. You remember that you're just not any ordinary boy - you're Kenji motherfuckin' Nakamura, and if there's one thing you don't do, it's quit before the end has arrived.

So with a superhuman effort, you pull yourself to your feet. The trainer, damn him, barely looks like he'd broken a sweat. Robotic, indeed.

Blood pours down your face, mixing with the sweat sheen lining your torso. Mouth wide open, deep breaths being heaved every second, you still manage a cheeky smirk.

"Come on, trainer man," you taunt between gasps. "Is that all you've fuckin' got?"

The fist approaches your face at lightning speed for a second time. But this time, you don't have the capability to dodge or even prepare for it, let alone meet it as an equal.

The world explodes in stars, then goes black before you ever hit the floor.

NAKAMURA

credit to darsypoo uwu

credit to fireflyz!

credit to stare!

D1f Jade Morin - Alyssaimagine
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✩ public training sessions ✩ Jun 10, 2020 22:02:43 GMT -5

Quote

Post by D1f Jade Morin - Alyssaimagine on Jun 10, 2020 22:02:43 GMT -5

JADE MORIN

Jade Morin was nervous, but she would not allow herself to show it. Today, like every day since her name came out of the bowl at the Reaping, she had to be absolutely perfect. Flawless. Elegant. She could not show the world that she, a Career, a Morin, was nervous. She had to get a good score today, or she may as well sign her life away. She knew that a good score meant good sponsors, and if she wanted to live she'd probably really want that. Her eyes stared at the wall in front of her, legs crossed at the ankles, and hands folded in her lap. She would be flawless.

Being from District One, she wouldn't have to wait long. In some cases it was seen as a good thing: being first meant getting it over with faster. And she wasn't last, which by that point the judges would be bored and tired. In some cases, it made it harder. She had to be absolutely amazing in there, so they would remember it throughout the rest of the day, because they would have many more people showing off after her. If she didn't stand out in the beginning, then her score would be low. She needed to do something to be remembered, and she needed to be different from everyone else.

Her name was called, and she stood up slowly. Her feet made their way toward the Private Training Session Room, and she took a deep breath to calm herself. Her heart beat against her chest, but she continued on. She would make no mistakes today. She would be fierce, beautiful, and most of all: she would be deadly. If she wanted a good score, then she would have to make the world remember the name: Jade Morin.

Jade stepped into the room, and faced the judges. She bowed in front of them. It was not mocking. It did not lack respect. "Jade Morin, District One," she said, only then standing straight to look at them. "I'm here to make you remember me." After that, she flashed them a grin, then a wink.

Once she turned toward the weapons, she wondered why she'd been nervous in the first place. It was all beautiful, and she realized that for the first time since the Reaping she could have that much needed stress relief. She could destroy these dummies, and not a single Capitolite - save for her Judges - would see her unladylike behavior. First, she made her way over to the dummies. They were not unlike the ones used at the expensive, and advanced combat classes back in District One, so she'd used them before. They were realistic, or as realistic as dummies could manage to get.

She kicked it, using the martial arts she'd been signed up to train in since she could walk. It was easy, and before she knew it, she was lost in the action. She punched, she kicked, she did everything she could manage and she couldn't get enough of it. She went back to the weapon stand and grabbed a sword. It felt perfect in her hand, and she hadn't realized how much she could miss wielding a sword. Finally, she could do something about all that stress and fear she'd been building.

Jade stabbed the dummy in the heart, but she didn't stop there. All control was gone. She was not the ladylike girl who had first stepped into this room. Now she was a lioness attacking her prey, and she swung her sword over and over and over again. She was sweating, but she had never felt so alive. She would do this with every single dummy. Swing, swing, swing. She was determined to destroy everything in this room. She forgot about the judges, the Hunger Games, and her fear. She only knew how to swing her sword. Only knew how to destroy what was in front of her.

They had to tell her it was time more than once before she was brought back to reality. She faced them once they had her attention, and she no longer looked like an elegant lady. Now she looked more like the lioness: fierce, eyes wild, sweat dripping down her chin, chest heaving.

She'd become a Warrior.

Table made by kiah

The breezy confidence from Jade Morin's wave to the crowd in One is back in full force as she takes the training room like a second stage, bow and all. You smile back at her, chuckle under your breath at the wink, and wait to see whether she can deliver on her promise.

She can.

There are people who would call your high expectations for Careers old-fashioned. Maybe they're even right; the days when your two Games saw two Careers back to the Capitol are decades gone now, not to mention that one of those occasions was the last time District Two won a Games at all. But whatever can be said of their spotty performance in the intervening years, Anatalia Morrisen and Ridley Le Roux have brought their Districts back into the spotlight this decade, and you're pleased to see their skill reflected in front of you. The trainers haven't lost their touch, and Jade is clearly a worthy student, fluid and strong with or without a weapon in hand. It's not the most creative demonstration you've ever seen, but it's effective, and that's what matters.

You take your notes, but it's a perfunctory exercise. She's right; you'll remember her.

"Promising start, between the two of them," you observe cheerfully as you pen a well-earned 9. "I wonder whether anyone else will live up to it."

Last Edit: Jun 11, 2020 19:23:07 GMT -5 by D1f Jade Morin - Alyssaimagine

pogue
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Is she trying to interrupt our henna session?

✩ public training sessions ✩ Jun 10, 2020 22:09:49 GMT -5

Quote

Post by pogue on Jun 10, 2020 22:09:49 GMT -5

OOC: This first table is more of development for Callum than it is training session. you're free to read it if you want, or you can just skip to the second part.

C A L L U M

Callum Leare rests his weight against the wall of the hallway, curling and chipping paint falling to the floor as he scratches his fingernail against it. It is his Friday ritual, dragging his creaking bones and sunken eyes to the school to read to the kids. Castles and kingdoms, he presses his hand into the dusty and crippled cover of the book in his possession. Miss Desson had given it to him, presented in faded ribbons and bows for his birthday a few hours prior, shaking hands wrapped around it. She was a sweet old thing, carrying the single library in town on her back, and she had insisted that she had wished she could have done more for all of the help he had given her and the other teachers.

”I pulled it from deep in the shelves. I wish it was something greater-”

”No no, it’s perfect. Thanks so much.”

He had not had time to flip through the pages before departing from his house, Elijah’s hand catching him within the doorframe. Cold eyes in a dead stare between them, the vintage book burns into his hand as his brother speaks.

”Hey, back before dinner alright? I’m gonna try and get a cake for your birthday.”

”I’m going to help one of the parents after reading. I don’t know when I’ll be back. Probably not until 8.”

Amongst the yellowed cover he can barely make out the word “Fairytale” in a hardly readable script. He cannot, however, make out the word that had been placed right above it, lost to the sands of time as he brushes his fingertips over it. From inside the classroom he hears the teacher finish her lesson, silencing the mumbles and constant remarks of the children she teachers as she introduces him.

”Okay everyone, it is Friday, so you know who is here to read you a special story!”

The handle clicks and creaks as Callum opens the door, screaming on its hinges to the sound of his own heartbeat. He clasps the book against his thigh as he sits, drumming his fingertips to the sound of the students giggling excitedly as they cross their legs. He smiles at them before opening the book again, flipping to a random story and tracing the words with his fingertips as he reads.

”The story of Little Red Cap.”

The room is silent and Callum’s heart thumps within his chest as he continues to read. The words are fresh and foreign to everyone in the room, even himself. The story is spun with hope laced within his words, following the story of little red cap as she frolics through the woods on her way to grandmother’s house. It is the same as his other stories that he has told them, filled with promised woodlands and fantastical creatures of the world. An escape, a refuge, an adventure.

But then, it becomes different. His voice catches within his throat as he reads ahead, words falling dead in the air as he spots it.

The wolf pressed the latch, and the door opened. He stepped inside, went straight to the grandmother's bed, and ate her up.

He trails off and is met with inquisitive glances from the children and their teachers, tilted heads and questions brimming in their thoughts. The story in front of him bleeds with death and murder, grandmothers and girls snatched from their life and eaten right up. The fairy tale written on the front of the book, he realizes, was a lie.

So, he changes it.

Spinning the tale within the book into one that imbues the same hope and adventure that he has told them of so many times before, their eyes reflecting the happiness he has given them so many times before. Ripping words from the page and chewing them up, spitting them out more delicate and fragile than they had been before, the story within his new book falls dead as he speaks it.

"All the better to eat you with!"

”All the better to.. smile with.”

He finishes with as much gusto as he can muster for both himself and the children, and he slams the book shut in his lap with the echo of a heartbeat running through his chest. Wordlessly he looks to the teacher, who quickly jumps in and saves him from questions.

”Okay class! That’s it for story time today. Let’s line up so that Mrs. Dover can take you out for recess!”

The kids follow suit and Callum watches them march out the door, placing the book on his chair as he goes to say goodbye to one of the students. When he turns back around, the teacher is flipping through the pages of his book, brows furrowed in concern.

”Hey Callum, maybe don’t bring this book around anymore.”

He breathes out for a moment before letting a smile escape from his lips, taking the book back from the teacher and tucking it into his pocket.

”I understand, I didn’t have time to read it before coming over…

...but a story can always be changed and altered, rewritten to be better.”

He smiles before he leaves, the ticking clock on the wall echoing his footsteps and his heartbeat as the door closes behind him.

C A L L U M

The tick of the waiting room clock burrows itself deep into his brain, a dull symphony cheering on his own demise. It, like everything within the training center, had a certain malice laced within its sounds. Aching, hollow, dull and mysterious, it existed within the same realm of the whispers he heard from the walls, catacombs of the damned reaching out to him. An open invitation, no option to decline. It’s those same ghosts that he realizes are pulling his strings, etching his story into his skin with his own blood. His heartbeat joins in rhythm with the clock, tick thump tick thump tick thump.

Callum is twiddling his thumbs out of instinct, eyes darting around the room and focusing in on his fellow tributes. It was the first time since the opening ceremonies that they had been in the same space, and his mind flashes back to taking their places on the chariots with his fellow tributes waiting to be displayed, cementing their souls as some sort of bloody trophy for the Capitol to gawk at. Back then, he had only had Birdy Ivy to look to with some sort of familiarity, a living story that was waiting to be told. Now, as he had studied each face of his fellow tributes, he was forced to reflect on all of the interactions that had been stitched amongst them. Watching the city sleep with Ezra and his pies, Kestrel’s melodies finding hope amongst the night, his accusatory argument with Cyro Krane. He gulps and drops his eyes to the floor, reminding himself that these stories did not truly matter. Lost and forgotten, they were simply pages waiting to be burnt.

His thumbs stop twiddling when the intercom announces Bird Ivy, and the realization of what he is about to do or not do sets in. It was why he had refused to touch alcohol for all of his life, Kirito had given him a bottle with the words ”You look like you need this more than I do….

Kirito had given him a bottle.

The bottle had given him the ability to remember and to forget.

it gave you more than that… his mind tells him.

It is correct, because when he had stumbled to bed at the last drop of a bottle he had not realized that he would wake up to the stench of his own sins littering the floor below, a toxic green trophy of his mistakes the night prior. Fuck. He had tried to fall back asleep, but his stomach had rippled and swirled and forced him to watch the morning sun with a glass of water in hand, watching his coffin come to life and listening to the echoes in the walls surrounding him. Fingers pressed to glass window and he had felt his own heartbeat in-tune with the ebbs and flows of the Capitol city, intertwining his heart and soul and heart and being with the buildings that touched the sky. He had run through every story he had read and written, hope laced within their words and a comfort within each page. His childhood was filled with the altering of every nightmare he had ever had, building a kingdom from a warzone and a crown of coal and ember. On the third hour his mind had finally halted his descension, whispering into the void:

you are a written story…
the Games your final chapter…
so give them what they want.
His heart had not had a rebuttal.

So he had written his plan or lack thereof in blood and tears within his journal, letting his hand smudge the ink. Now, with every twiddle of his thumbs he feels like he is flipping the pages of his own story, rapidly approaching the end. The door opens again and Bird is led out, and for the first time he cannot read the story that dances across his face. There is a first for everything, he has found, even when it is the last of one’s everything.

Callum Leare

The intercom awakens him from his slumber and, on shaking legs he stands to walk into the room, Peacekeepers opening the doors before slamming it shut as he walks through. The click of the lock lands perfectly with a single thump of his heart, and he realizes he is locked into his own story. He silently assesses his surroundings before taking a moment to glance at the authors of his own chapter, their eyes burning into his being as he walks. A boy from Twelve is a dead man walking still, he knows that they know he knows it. So when he finally gets to the weapons table he grabs one of the knives, knuckles running white as he wraps his fingers around the hilt.

I requested two mutts…

He states, cut off by the doors on the other side of the training center opening. The snouts come first and the blood thirst second, snarling and vicious and bloody and angry. Hellhounds. From hell to the screen and now in front of him, there’s collars around their necks and trainers standing behind them, pressing their feet into the ground as they struggle to contain the muscular bodies of the mutts. He sees death in the mutts eyes as they growl and snarl at him, sharpened claws scraping against the metal floors. Callum takes a few steps to his left back towards the center of the room and stares down the mutts, trying to swallow whatever spit he has left balanced on his tongue. The words of his self-defense trainer echo in his mind once, twice.

"You don’t have raw strength, but you’ve got wits. Put your opponents into undesirable situations, then strike."

He nods and the collars are released, and his story begins to furiously be etched into his skin as the mutts charge. One heartbeat, two, he waits until the mutts are too close for the devils comfort before throwing his body to the right, utilizing his body weight to duck and roll and before springing back up to his feet. The shadow of the hounds dances over him for a split second, and he can hear a small yelp and a furious snarl as the two lunge at the same time, the lack of a target to hit causing them to tangle and crash into one another. Callum doesn’t waste time in letting himself watch their tangle, instead as the creatures turn their sights to him he turns his back to them and sprints, hearing their claws scratch against the floor as the mutts begin to charge at him again.

The silver weapons table is his refuge and he jumps just like the mutts, sliding across the table and hearing the weapons clatter against the floor around him, sounds of his story echoing through the metal walls encasing him. One heartbeat and he turns and grabs the opposite end of the table, the mutts preparing to pounce towards him again. He pulls on one end of the table and lifts, feeling the vibrations and thud of the table as he flips it on its side and ducking down behind it. He cements his feet into the floor and presses his back against the table, a heartbeat cracking within his chest as the two mutts collide with the table. He feels his body strain as the weight presses into him, feet sliding against the floor before he stops his body from moving. He feels the mutts yelp as their heads hit the table, and it’s only a moment of relief before the creatures are above him, snapping and biting at the top of his head.

He ducks down, his head just out of reach of the snarling mutts and feels bloody drool hit the top of his head and shoulders, hitting the side of his face and painting the floor around him red with bloody spit glops. He grinds his teeth together, curling his fists and preparing to punch at the mutts before his eyes spot a small mace on the floor next to him, fluorescent lighting dancing off of it as he struggles against the mutts weight. He breathes deep, feeling the cool air hit his lungs before quickly snatching the blunt mace and quickly shifting his body to supplement the added weight pressure.

The mutts are still snatching at his throat and Callum can feel their viciousness, hand wrapped around the mace before he swings it backwards, connecting with the first hounds head. It’s an awkward angle to hit it at, and he does nothing but cause the mutt to yelp loudly and stumble backwards off the table, whimpers intertwined with snarls as the mutt takes its moment to regain its balance and focus. Once the first hounds weight leaves he shifts his body into a more ideal position, letting the mutt snap one last time at his crouched body before he twists his body and rapidly swings his arm back towards the mutt, using the momentum of his twisting body to smash the mutts snout back into the table. He hears a crack and two of the mutts fangs clatter to the ground below, blood pouring from the mutts mouth as its mangled face snaps back from the table, a chorus of screams and yelps running in tune as its symphony. He takes the moment and quickly stands, moving to one side of the table and slamming his weight into it, rotating it on its axis and forcing it to spin into the mutts body, the leg of the table smashing into the mutts side and, for a second time, he hears another crack and the mutt falls to the ground, desperately attempting to snap at him as it does. He doesn’t waste any time in quickly delivering a kick to its now broken ribs, hearing the mutt scream before he grabs the mutts neck and pulls it to the same table, its head placed onto the rectangular metal leg of the table.

His foot slams into the mutts head and explodes the skull against the leg, bloody brain matter and sins spraying up his leg and around the floor. It’s screams go silent.

They are replaced by a snarl as he begins to turn, the second mutt having regained consciousness and lunged at him.

He hardly has the moment to raise his arms before he is on the ground, his arms quivering as the mutt places its weight on his chest, claws tearing through his uniform and blood seeping from the wounds, etching the words of his tale into his skin. He grunts out of instinct, desperately attempting to push the beast back as it snaps and lunges at his face. The knife within his hands was knocked from him, clattering to the side just out of his reach. It mocks him, its metallic clang replaced by the sounds of their struggle. Blood seeps from the beast’s mouth and its breath contains the screams of the damned. It floods his nostrils and even amongst the pressure his mind tells him to gag, the same smell of his own alcohol laced vomit coming back to haunt him. It is a dead struggle, neither of the two forces relenting and he realizes he cannot keep the force up for much longer, he will lose his head or his heart or his life.

You will lose all of those anyways his mind tells him somberly
remember, your story is already written. his heart adds.
it cannot be altered. not this time. his mind finishes the thought.

With shaky limbs and grinding teeth he remembers that his stories used to be filled with innocence and hope, knights and kingdoms, dragons and damsels. Victories came easy to his stories back then, defeats did not lurk in the shadows.

victory is not as simple as just winning. his heart tells him.
it cannot come without sacrifice. says his mind.

He breathes once, twice, heartbeats flooding his mind before using his last bit of strength to throw the beasts weight down his body and towards his leg, the mutts head landing on his calf. On the third heartbeat the beast realizes the opportunity and clamps its jaw down on his calf, fangs sinking into his flesh and tearing the veins that course through his leg. The pain spreads itself deep within his bones and a scream works its way from his gut out of his mouth and he releases bloody murder, the words hanging dead in the air. Dark spots dance around his vision and threaten to cut his chapter short, but he does not let them bury him (not yet, at least). Instead, he manages to use his arms to drag his body closer to the knife that had fallen next to him, the beasts mouth tearing flesh from bone as his fingers wrap around the hilt of the knife. He has no thoughts left as his muscles work out of pure instinct, tracing the words of a sacrifice and a story as he plunges the knife into the hounds throat, feeling it sink into the flesh.

And then, he carves his name into the mutts throat, letting its blood pour out as the whimpers go silent against the ticks of the clock on the wall. Another scream releases from his throat as he manages to throw his weight on top of the beast raising and plunging the knife into the mutts body again and again, heartbeat to heartbeat, tick to tock.

He can’t tell what blood is coming from his leg and what blood is coming from the beast now, caking his fingers and white uniform with the stains of hell. His throat dry and his voice cracked, lost to his own screams. When he finally stops stabbing the beast he topples off of it, pressing his weight onto his one good leg as he stands. The bone presses and exposes itself against his left leg, mangled and shattered beneath the bite of the beast. Somehow he manages to stand, blood dripping from his leg and his uniform and caked over his face, the war paint of a story and a sacrifice that has already been written for him.

His blood runs cold as he stands and stares at the Gamemakers for however long he can hold it, black spots dancing and twirling in his vision.

They finally claim victory, and the world goes black as Callum Leare falls unconscious.

Tom
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✩ public training sessions ✩ Jun 10, 2020 22:12:20 GMT -5

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Post by Tom on Jun 10, 2020 22:12:20 GMT -5

District Eleven was never in anyone's favor.

Cyro Krane's seen the way Eleven's looked at by the capitolites. Just more bodies waiting to be dragged back to Eleven and forgotten once more, except he's going to be different. Moments like these where he silently waits for time to pass are the worst. Stuck in his own head knowing he had to prove himself and break away from the legacy of District Eleven. Break free of the legacy of the Izar family and be someone new to them. Silently, holding his feet together staring to the ground letting his heartbeat rise into his throat. District Eleven didn't have the same odds as the rest of the districts. Over the years, Eleven has ended up being rooted against always.

The difference between him and everyone else had been only one thing.

Cyro Krane wanted to be rooted against.

The gamemakers would already be against him before the games even started. Judgement clear in the moment he volunteered to be a tribute; everyone saw him as a horrible father, but he was doing this for Xander. Everything came back to his son. Eyes glancing up to see Kahinta nod to him. Silently, he nods back. Fingers fumbling together as he glances to Arabella, who had become a fast friendly face despite their disagreements and misunderstandings. Built upon a fire, he's been told he's a monster multiple times since getting there.

A bad father.

A monster for leaving his son.

A selfish creature.

"Cryo Krane."

A voice reaches out like the fire burning in his chest reminding him of the way Katelyn Persimmon had dragged out the anger in him. The same fire that told him to fight for his son. To fight to go home to his son because Xander deserved his father. Swiftly, he's up avoiding eye contact with Arabella and the twelves. Once he's through the doors of the training center, he can remember his plan. If he was going to fight for his son, the two sitting higher than the rest would have to believe him. They were going to have to believe that Cyro Krane was a fighter; just like he knew he was.

Wasting no time, he's calmly heading towards the station full of weapons, peering around it for a moment grabbing a simple knife, staring at his own eyes in the reflection. Daddy! Daddy! The sound of his son's voice echoes along the steel as Cyro almost drops the blade, but instead he catches himself gripping the handle tighter. Staring for a moment around the room, he notices what he's been looking for by the camouflage station. The feeling of fire behind his eyes fills him with a determination to show himself, prove himself to the gamemakers and everyone else.

The gamemakers would be bored by now. Watching all the other tributes perform their sessions, he would have been. Eyes glancing up to the gamemakers for a moment, taking in the way they look and present themselves. Fingers taut against the hilt of the knife before he bites down hard onto his jaw. Xander's smile fills his vision, Amira's scream fills his ears, and the shouting of his father fills his head. Slinking over to the camouflage station, he grabs the vial keeping it hidden behind his palm. Eyes glancing back to the rest of the room; catching eyes with a trainer who had spread the rumor about him and his son. Approaching with eyes narrowed and his head held high, he speaks with the tone he used towards Katelyn Persimmon.

"Choose your weapon and try to kick my ass, asshole."

Should he have teased the trainer?

No, but at this point he didn't care. The fire in his voice and bubbling behind his eyes starts to burn brighter; leaving behind a feeling of dread. Eyes watch the trainer as he pulls out a sword against his knife; knowing the larger weapon had stronger hits, but that didn't matter. Cyro's plan didn't involve having an advantage anyways. The moment the sword is picked up, the trainer turns quickly trying to get the upper hand on him. A swift, but heavy swing he saw coming from a mile away that has him sidestepping out of the way of. Eyes glancing to steel reminding him that death would always be just a fingertip away from him. Red from that same night filling his mind, punches thrown in desperation as he can hear the scream of Amira and the cry of Xander.

Pushing forward with the knife, he's blocked easily, kicked in the side as he feels the air get knocked out of his lungs. A heavy breath as he can see the sword swinging at him from the side, for a moment he's watching it in slow motion coming straight at him, but he feels himself moving faster than before. Ducking under the blade, stabbing forward trying to hit, but he misses as the trainer goes with the weight of the sword to make it out of his reach. It's a deadly dance of swipes and stabs as he can feel the red of his blood boil behind his fingers; burning with that same anger and desire to be more than just Cyro Krane.

He was a father and that changed everything for him.

Cyro would risk his life over and over again for Xander.

If it meant giving him the best future, he would do it.

They're evenly matched, but Cyro was slowing now. Movements that were once easy to dodge are becoming harder and his knife is missing the entire time. Dodges and movements slowing down, but it's when the sword cuts a small wound along his shoulder that Cyro's noticed his flaw of not being able to keep up with someone who's been trained for this. Eyes glancing to the eyes of the trainer who's now laughing slightly at him. The sound setting his ears on fire, making the red of blood on his shoulder drip slowly down. A moment passes where he's preparing to strike watching the trainer go on guard now, but instead of striking forward with the knife, Cyro lets it fall out of his hand.

The trainer's eyes follows the knife, just like he had planned.

In a swift motion, Cyro is pushing his other hand forward, exposing the vial of ink he had kept from spilling during the fight. A swift shift of his movement is all it takes as he arcs black liquid up into the air, towards the trainer's eyes who are still on the knife before they catch the sight of black ink coming towards him. Cyro can see him trying to react, but the ink reaches his target's eyes. Blinding him for just a moment, enough to catch the knife and push forward with the momentum pushing the knife to the trainer's neck as the guy falls backward.

Flat on his back with Cyro Krane over him, knife to his throat as he lets the words slip in anger from his throat.

"Don't spread rumors you don't know shit about."

Pulling the knife back and getting off the trainer, he ignores the groan of pain from the ink in the trainer's eyes. Glancing up at the gamemakers, he can see them fully now. A moment of knowing they'll think of him as nothing more than an Eleven boy who would have to die in order to save face. Instead, he had other plans. Cyro Krane wasn't going to die. He was going to fight. Every step of the way, Cyro would fight for Xander and himself. Katelyn Persimmon could hate him. The other twenty three tributes could hate him, but he would kill all of them if he had to.

Fingers splayed through the sketchbook he had brought with him now as he rips the page out. Xander had drawn a monster on this page. Large eyes and strange body features, meant to be scary to a boy who was only two. Still some sort of scribbles, but enough of a shape to understand what the boy had seen. Eyes glancing up as he stabs the knife through the paper, stabbing it into the floor, close enough for the gamemakers to see. Eyes glancing up as he smiles for the first time, all teeth and filled with a fire that he wants to fight for himself and to make it out of here.

"My son drew this."

A pause to let himself stare at the gamemakers who sit above him with all the control in their hands.

"In Eleven, you are like this drawing."

Letting the smile fall, he glares with narrow eyes and a stomach full of fire.

"Monsters."

Standing taller than before he crosses his arms, letting the word sink in before he smiles and steps out of the room.

Cyro Krane would fight.

Fight against the system that brought him here.

Fight against the people who doubted him.

Fight for his son and his life.

Either way, he was going to win.

Whether it was their way or his own way.

"In Eleven, you are like this drawing," Cyro Krane says, standing over the drawing itself with burning eyes. It's an endearing picture, in the predictable but genuine way that children's art tends to be endearing—bold colors, hectic scribbles, energy and imagination that might or might not someday be tempered into skill. "Monsters."

You smile.

Cyro, for all his youth and despite the dubious choice that brought him here, seems like a caring father. His son's life would be better with him in it; he'll have a hard time, growing up in the shadow of wondering why his father preferred death to staying with him. But every life in Panem would be far worse, and most likely much shorter, if the nation erupted into civil war—if you stopped giving the Districts reasons to remember to be afraid, stopped reminding them what the Capitol can do if they fall out of line.

Any serial killer off the street can murder twenty-three children. This only works if you're monsters.

Cyro fought competently enough, you and Nilima decide, if not exceptionally; throwing the ink in his opponent's eyes was a good tactic, and visually dramatic to boot. Between that type of scrapping and the sob story, he'll pull in good views, for as long as he lasts.

On your score sheet, you write in a 6; to yourself you make a note, on the off chance you ever see Cyro again, to thank him for the glowing performance review.

Last Edit: Jun 12, 2020 12:31:26 GMT -5 by Tom

Made by umber vivuus 12b 🥀 [dars]

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✩ public training sessions ✩ Jun 10, 2020 22:13:18 GMT -5

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Post by ✨ zozo. on Jun 10, 2020 22:13:18 GMT -5

The squeaky shoes don't help with the grand entrance I'm supposed to be making. Instead I'm just amplifying that awkward mouse aesthetic Rocko said I had going on. When I soured my face he said it wasn't a bad thing. That I was 'cute' - cute isn't going to cut it in the arena though, is it?

Twitchy ears and squeaky shoes aside, I second-guess my idea for this. They're expecting half a fight from me, District Eight female - that's a legacy. Something to live up to. Pity they chose the least fierce girl in all of my district this year. My eyes dart to the swords and I think of Emmett Le Roux teaching me how to hold it correctly or the knives laid out on a table by the door, but I've no time left to come up with something deadly.

I'd fuck it up somehow anyway. Best to stick with something I'm good at.

I come to a stop in the middle of the room and glance down at my feet, a blurred reflection shimmering back at me in the silver sheen of the floor. With them up there and I down here it's easy to feel small - like a mouse.

Clearing my throat, I close my eyes and imagine Dad smiling at me.

Then I sing.

"I am a poor wayfaring stranger
A-wanderin' through this world of woe
There is no war, no toil, nor danger
In that bright land to which I go"

My voice tremors in the first few lines, nerves cracking around the higher notes and bouncing off the reflections in the room.

"I'm going there to see my Father
And all the children who've gone on
I'm just going over Seven
I'm just going over home"

An avalanche in my bones at the thought of Dad - but with every word I find a rhythm to my breathing, ironing out the pitching and the pain underneath the song.

"I know dark clouds will gather 'round me
I know my way is hard and steep
But beauteous glory lies before me
Where rebels 'deemed, their vigils keep"

Then I'm singing proud, shoulders back, eyes fixed on the holographic shield dancing across my watering eyes.

"I'm going there to see my Mother
She said she'd meet me when I'm called
So, I'm just going over Eleven
I'm just going over home."

When the last note resonates I blink back my tears, take a little bow and turn on my heel, shuffling through the room with a squeak until I reach the door. Still a mouse, the noise reminds me. Still a nervous, quiet, little mouse.

On that note I pause, look at the knives, and instinctively pick one up before stabbing the dummy next to me in the throat with a 'hmph!' For a second I blink at my handiwork, nod once, then exit through the doors - that'll do.

For now.

NOTES/CREDITS: lyrics i tweaked from the folk song 'poor wayfaring stranger', half out of memory singing something very similar when i was a kid half to fit the themes of war-torn panem post-dark days lol. also if it isn't implied already she can sing quite well lolol

“and men said that the blood of the stars flowed in her veins.”

fireflyz
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✩ public training sessions ✩ Jun 10, 2020 22:13:34 GMT -5

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Post by fireflyz on Jun 10, 2020 22:13:34 GMT -5

As another holographic arrow zipped past him, grazing his ear, he wondered if he had made a mistake. He was three minutes into his evaluation - or maybe it hadn't been three minutes, because he didn't particularly remember walking in - and he was already floundering. Three simulations formed an arc on the floor before him, each brandishing their own weapons. The one in the middle fired another arrow and Dominic contorted his body to avoid impact.

What was he thinking? Let's go in and challenge multiple sims at once, that'll show your prowess. If you live. He opened his fist slightly so the trident wouldn't cling to his palm as much, his underarms prickling with regret. A gold flash warned him of the hologram to his left, and he turned and slashed at its legs, watching the non-existent weight of its body tear away from its joints. A third arrow flashed by, grazing his shoulder this time, and the sudden discomfort stunned him. "Shit!"

The third sim lumbered forward with its glaive, and Dominic instinctively stepped backwards. Dominic was startled to feel the cool grasp of water on his ankle, and he found himself falling backwards into the open pool with a splash. His opponent hovered over him, swinging its glaive downward. Dominic thrust his trident forward with both hands to block the attack, frantically kicking at the space in front of him in an attempt to get back to his feet. Water spilled out of the pool at the hologram's feet, and its entire being seemed to tremble. Yet, it didn't slow its assault, raising the glaive and shoveling it downwards. Dominic narrowly rolled out of its path. He winced as the pointed tip carved into his hip.

Dominic shivered as water seeped through the front of his uniform, bracing himself against the edge of the pool. As he tried to rise to his feet, he noticed the first sim crawling spider-like across the floor. Dominic thrust the prongs of his trident where he believed the face would be if it were human, and the illusion shattered like glass. He then took the trident with both hands and swung it into the other hologram's knees, watching it capsize into the water. The image vibrated and fizzled out, and Dominic took the opportunity to scramble to his feet. He sheepishly rubbed at his neck, fingers naturally following the curve of his keloid.

Madelyn's voice echoed in his head like a prayer. Don't stick your neck out for anyone else, you hear me?

Heart racing, he looked up just in time to see another arrow flying towards him and leaned out of its path. This shit was getting old fast. He almost wished that he would run out of time, but who knew if the Gamemakers would actually stop the sim or watch him struggle endlessly?

No, Dominic thought, I need to handle this.

He stepped out of the pool, wet footprints trailing behind him as he circled the room. Fuck. What was he supposed to do? He was grateful that the water dripping from his scalp disguised the sweat collecting on his face. What had he spent all these years training for? He willed himself to teleport back to District Four, cut through all the sand and sour memories to remember what the trainers had taught them.

In his mind's eye, he saw Madame McFarland at the center of the room modeling technique, her muscles subtly flexing beneath her petite frame. His father had complained when he got stuck with McFarland, said she was too pretentious (who calls themselves Madame) and that Klein was a better instructor, but Dominic admired her, for she wasn't the strongest or the best, but she was just competent enough. She was all that he needed, wanted, to be. And she had taught him something important - if someone had the upper hand, you had to bring them to your level.

The hologram took some time to reload its bow in between shots, and Dominic took these opportunities to weave closer to it. It would angle itself to fire another arrow at him and he would leap out of the way, willing himself not to fall over before he reached his target. Yet another arrow flew, and the hologram reached into space behind its head to conjure up another arrow. Dominic let out a shout, charging at the hologram and slashing at its shoulder, watching the arm that held the bow fall to the floor and disintegrate. McFarland's advice lingered in his mind. Disarming your opponent is the key to claiming victory. He then thrust the trident through the sim's torso, watching it crumble away into space.

Sopping wet and blood rushing in his ears, Dominic returned the weapon to its rack and walked out of the room, only remembering his introductory words once he was in the safety of the hallway.

"I'm Dominic. District Four. I'm pretty ordinary."

"I'm pretty ordinary," Dominic Merluccius says, and the educator in you wants to groan. You see an attitude somewhat like this all the time with your younger students, in one form or another—reluctance to own their own ideas in class or in meetings, papers littered with maybe and I believe. And you never fault them for it, only find an opportunity to pull them aside and let them know that confident presentation matters because if they discredit themselves right off the bat, their audience will have no context for any response but to believe them—but honestly.

Dominic is not ordinary. Not especially groundbreaking, either, but then few are, and you're impressed that he chose to demonstrate his ability to handle multiple opponents simultaneously. Even if the method of demonstration is imperfect—slashing light and slashing flesh are very different tasks—he's proven that he's fast, he's agile, he can adapt to moving targets, and he knows how strategize when he seems outmatched.

Officially, of course, Careers don't exist, but you all know Four for what it is, and you're pleased to see Dominic representing them well. Even his fumble into the pool can't bring his score below a solidly noteworthy 7.

Last Edit: Jun 12, 2020 17:49:06 GMT -5 by fireflyz

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✩ public training sessions ✩ Jun 11, 2020 5:58:06 GMT -5

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Post by pup on Jun 11, 2020 5:58:06 GMT -5

Fear.

That's what has dominated her mind ever since she volunteered to die.

Waiting as she watches others go by, she gives Jade a small smile, her eyebrows gently furrowed with stress. "Good luck," she whispers, knowing that her ally from district one wouldn't need it. She's been training her whole life for this while Zenia is merely here as an escape.

Gently bouncing her leg, she keeps her head down while she waits. Her hazel eyes settle on her right hand. There was a time when she was right-handed, and she had never truly mastered the art of using her left hand. It was certainly going to hinder her today when she was supposed to show a few people that she didn't volunteer for nothing. It was the reason why she was here, anyways.

Her hand doesn't hurt anymore, but the memory still stings. Her parents' screams as they crack the bones in her hand that never grew back properly. It was the shock that had zapped that same hand into the air at the reaping. She was running away from anger and pain straight into death's ever-welcoming clutches.

Then they call her name.

District Three Female: Zenia Siella

She had been named after a distracting flower, something that was beautiful on the outside. Her parents had grown it when she was first born, before they had turned bitter and hateful. It was a reminder of the beautiful life that she could have had if her parents hadn't grown into the people they were. But just like the Zenias in her parents yard, her life had withered into what it was.

Her last name held no meaning. She felt no connection to her parents. It was just something that she would never stop running from.

Entering the center, she didn't know what she would do. It was something that she hadn't been preparing for like Jade or Dom. But she knew she had to do something.

Looking up at the gamemakers, their horrid gazes on her, she quickly turned away. They were meaningless too. They just wanted to see her suffer, just like her parents did when they had decided to crack the bones in her hand. All they wanted was to see her die.

She had to show that she could survive.

She knew what to do.

Looking beside her, she took a quick mental note of where everything was. The firemaking station where she had spent most of her time learning how to use flint and steel, the sword station where she had met the only person here who seemed to care about someone beside themselves, Arabella, and the avoxes standing by the door.

She walked to the avoxes, giving them her small, awkward smile. "I don't know if you're allowed to do anything for me, but can we play a game?"

The tongueless boy she was speaking to, just a bit older than her with curly brown hair and green eyes, nodded at her, a questioning gaze in his eyes.

"Ok, we're going to play hide and seek. Just close your eyes and count to sixty, then try to find me."

He nods. It was a game they were probably both familiar with. Everyone was.

For Zenia, it was from a simpler time. Back when she was allowed out of her house to visit her friends after school.

Closing his eyes, the timer starts.

Rushing over to the fire-making station, she grabs the flint and steel, and then something that, honestly, the gamemakers shouldn't have trusted a bunch of teenagers with a death wish around. Gasoline.

She grabs the top with her left hand, balancing the container over her right hand. Rushing over to the camouflage station, she eyes the tree that was meant to blend yourself into. Then she begins to pour the gasoline onto the ground, forming a circle that went around the tree, leaving a small opening behind it.

Noting in her head that she only has a few seconds left, she drops it hidden behind a bush in the camouflage station, then quickly grabs a sword from the station nearby before hiding behind the tree. She leans it against the tree as she hides behind it, her form fit behind the trunk.

Time's up.

Even though he couldn't call out, she could hear his footsteps walking towards her. The boy probably saw the circle of liquid by the tree, confused. She could hear his footsteps approaching, probably wondering the significance of the circle.

When she could hear his steps nearing the tree, she bends down, the flint and steel in her hands, and she strikes them. Balancing the steel in her misconfigured right hand, she strikes the flint against it until sparks hit the trail of gasoline besides her.

The flames ignite.

Grabbing her sword in her left hand, she swings out from behind the tree. The boy stumbles backwards, falling onto the ground. His head near the flames forming the opposing end of the circle.

The light flickers in her eyes as the warmth heats her right hand that rested at her side.

Swinging the sword in her left, she brought it down, right next to the boys neck. Just short of slicing into him, his eyes fill with fear, but she knows she isn't going to hurt him. Even though she has one hand that won't be much help, she just needs to prove to those waiting for her death that she still has a working hand which was filled with enough rage to cause damage on its lonesome.

Looking back up at the gamemakers, her eyes ablaze, she hopes she's done what was needed for them to know that she wasn't to be discounted. She might have run here because of what happened to her right hand, but she wouldn't let her drag her down.

Her parents had thought they had left her crippled and helpless. They had thought that she'd be with them forever for them to torment.

Dropping her sword next to him, she reaches down with her left hand, pulling up the confused boy. The heat from the flames gently kiss her hand from a distance as she begins to pull him to her side. She brought him back around the tree where she had left their exit when she had began the circle of gasoline.

As they leave the circle of flames and leave the slowly burning camouflage station, the boy lets out a soft gasp of relief, and Zenia looks back up at the gamemakers, her eyes reflecting the flames she had created. She nods, then turns around to leave.

Taking one last look at the fire the fear of her parents' wrath had sparked, she felt a warmth inside her. Maybe she could make it out alive.

Then she exits the room, hurrying away from the speechless boy and the gamemakers' hate-filled eyes.

They can clean up the mess.

Do Avoxes not warn one another, you find yourself wondering as you watch one let Zenia Siella coax him forward, against interacting with tributes in this room? They're speechless, not voiceless, and you guard too many expensive secrets of your own to believe these events are truly ironclad. Surely they must. Surely. And yet here this boy is, waiting patiently as Zenia arms herself and pours gasoline.

Trusting? Sure he can take her if she tries anything? Traumatized into resignation? Hard to say.

It doesn't make a difference, in the end, as Zenia uses neither sword nor fire on him, leaving you relieved—disposal and replacement requests take time you'd rather spend moving the day along—but perplexed as to the purpose of involving him at all. Between the flames and the angle you can't read her expression well enough to judge whether swinging her sword into the ground and replacing it with an outstretched hand was a last-minute change of heart or the plan all along, but neither option necessarily inspires confidence in her ability to hold her own in a fight.

She never flinches from her own wall of flame, though, and she handled the sword competently enough while she had it. No doubt her injured hand gives her its share of trouble, but she looks like she's learned to cope with the other just fine, and not every tribute in the Center learns to hold a sword without dropping it on their own foot.

With luck, maybe the adrenaline of a real struggle will bring out a little more willingness to use that sword. For now, you suppose the display is enough for a 4.