Welcome to a tribute to my tributes! Whether you're a reader unfamiliar with me, or a submitter looking to get an idea of the personality of the tribute you are writing, I hope you enjoy the story!
Steel Keshmin, 16
District 2 Female
I remember clearly the day the Rebellion ended. My family had seen it coming for weeks, but it was still an enormous relief to know that we were no longer a nation at war. I worried for father and mother every day. She was a nurse, and should have been safe, but the rebels would stop at nothing. I had seen the twisted bodies in the streets of those that couldn't reach shelter fast enough when there was bombing. Men, women and children, all lying there for the flies. I cried with relief when it was over.
There and then, my thirteen year old self vowed that never again would I be forced to sit by and watch helplessly while others did the dying. If there was a battle, I wanted to be in it, fighting, to help.
The Capitol protected us. And we protected them. The other districts couldn't see that, so they rebelled. It was foolish, and the suffering we felt adds fuel to the fire that is lit inside me every time I see memorials to the peacekeepers that died defending us.
When the war ended, I promised myself: never again.
I'm still not sure how to feel about the Hunger Games. It's brutal, to be sure, and appeals to a certain vengeful part of me that I'm not entirely happy to have. Our children have an opportunity to kill their children. But then I think of the child soldiers, the fighting in the streets, and how the dissatisfaction of the districts took our innocence.
Never again.
It was what I told myself as I ran and built my endurance, strengthening my body and mind. It was what I thought when I stood in line with a beaming smile, learning of my acceptance as a cadet peacekeeper last year. In just four more years, I will be a commissioned officer in the ranks of Panem's greatest. I'm not joining as payment for a debt, or to get out a prison sentence, the way many are. I just want to keep my district and country safe. So that the sort of war I grew up fighting will happen never again.
Putting a last twist in my long braid, I head out to join my squad. Casey, her spiky blond hair sticking out from under her pale grey cap, gives me a wave. I wave back, and jog over, red-headed Alyssa following as she exits the barracks. The boys, Brent, Thaddeus, and Kelman, are already ready and waiting for the march to the square. The Reapings are a welcome break from the strict military schedule we adhere to. We get to just stand outdoors doing nothing for an hour. It's actually refreshing.
The last stragglers fall in line, and I check that my black t-shirt is tucked crisply into my grey cargo pants, bangs and headband securely held under my cap. I don't need to get yelled at for looking less than squared away.
We move out, and arrive in the square early, with plenty of time to have our fingers pricked and file into a special section before the Reapings commence. The first year, the representatives of District 2 were both children of rebel leaders. They fought hard to save themselves, but both were small and weak and underfed, and it was no surprise when they died. It was a well-merited punishment.
The next year, was more problematic. One of the children had no rebel ties, and the Reaping didn't appear to have been rigged as a punishment, the way it should have been. The boy, Arch Demson, won though. And we learned to forget that his participation had been forced. Besides, he was happy to be in. He lost his sister in the Rebellion, and he made the other tributes pay for her death.
I wonder if this year will be a punishment, or someone that wants to go. The alternative would never happen. The Capitol knows us much too well for that. This is a disciplinary measure, and those reaped will be those in need of discipline.
The sun comes out from behind the clouds just as our escort, Athena Dumont, takes the stage. Her costume is beautiful, but that's not the point. The reason she's dressed up is to honor those that fell in the war. As she starts the video presentation the Capitol has created, my eyes begin to mist over. We all remove our hats respectfully, honoring those that died and praying such violence will never be seen again.
Athena, after a brief moment of silence as the video ends, moves to the reaping bowls. The curved sides reflect the light of the sun, obscuring the names inside. After a brief praise of last years victory, while Arch smiles and looks as the ground, she moves to the boys bowl.
"I think it is proper that we meet the young man first, as Mr. Demson will be mentoring him this year."
The boy, Boulder, is tall and menacing. There is a defiant light in his eyes as he moves forward, and when his time to say a few words into the microphone comes, he shouts that the Capitol will see justice. It angers me. Can't he see how much pain has been caused?
I approve of the Capitol's choice in raining their justice on him at the Reaping.
Then she moves to the girls' bowl, and dips a hand in.
Her voice crisp and resonant, she gazes out across the square, and announces that the tribute will be Steel Keshmin.
Casey's face crumbles as she stares at me in shock. The others move away instinctively. They assume that I have been chosen for some crime, but I have done nothing! All my life I have sought only to serve others and do justice, to protect those that cannot protect themselves! What the Capitol has stood for, I have stood for!
After the initial moment of terror, my brain begins to process that I must step forward. There has to be a reason. Perhaps the Capitol believes that I will best serve them by entering the fray of the Hunger Games. If they see a young peacekeeping cadet win, then District 2 will have served them doubly well. It would be cowardly of me to go wrong now. I must always follow orders, and in time I'm sure I will understand why they felt I could best serve in this way.
I straighten my cap and march to the stage, mustering a smile as I stand at attention.
After the anthem has played its stirring strains, we enter the Justice Building and I am placed in a room. Athena explains that my family will come here to say goodbye.
My mother is crying, leaning on my father's arm. "Hush, Iris," he says sternly, but my mother continues to sob as she reaches out her arms to me.
I cross over and embrace her, then turn to my father and hug him, then hoist my brother on my hip, ruffling his short brown hair. "Wow Max, you are getting so heavy!" I tell him. "Why don't you run along and find your friends while I talk to mommy for a little while, okay?" I give him a thumbs up and a gentle push, shoving him out the door. I don't want to frighten him.
"Why did they pick you?" my mother begins. "You've been nothing but loyal!" she looks furious, and my father's hands are balled in fists. I feel terror, knowing that their love could lead them to rash action.
"They want me to set an example, I think," I say. "It's like getting orders for me to ship out. If they think I can serve best by going into the Games, then I go into the Games. If you think about it, it actually makes sense. District 2 is the leader for all the other districts. What we do, they do. If they see a young peacekeeping cadet win the Games, then they will know that the Games can be like an honorable contest. Not about vengeance. It could help stop another rebellion. In a way, it's what I've always wanted."
Mother gives me a teary smile, and they both hug me.
"Don't worry too much," I say more gently. "I'll fight for all I'm worth."
"That's my girl," my dad says, but I can see that he is perilously close to tears. They love me, and they know what a war looks like, so naturally they are not exactly happy that I have to go.
"Make us proud," my mother says. Then they both give me a kiss, and leave me alone with my thoughts. This is my big chance, and I will rise to the occasion. It's my first test, and I am determined to pass.
It's been too long. I'm staying determined, but this is a test like none I've seen before. As soon as I saw the rocky soil and scraggly trees, I knew this arena was my element, but many of the others are comfortable here too.
I wonder how long the boy from District 3 would have made it if I hadn't killed him. Surely not all the way to day eight. He was trying to kill me, and Three was a rebel district. But he was a child, and I wonder how much he really knew when he was in the Rebellion. After all, he only would have been eleven years old.
I am a firm believer in the maturity of children. I understood complex ideas and motivations when I was ten. Brushing off my concerns, I realize he was at the age of reason. He could have chosen not to rebel. He could have chosen not to attack me. We are soldiers, and under the articles of warfare we are free to defend ourselves.
There was also a sense of power when I slashed through him with my sword, and it's that more than the actual act of killing that unsettles me. It was a job, and an unpleasant one at that, so I oughtn't to be feeling happy about it. He looked just like Jericho, a friend of Max's that died in the bombing. Eyes wide and staring, blood trailing from his mouth. No, it was not a pleasant job at all.
Shoving my hair from my face, I wish for my black headband or my grey army cap. My nose is sunburned and strands of hair routinely escape from my braid. I see now why our hats are so essential.
I lean over the gurgling brook, lying on my stomach with my sword in its sheath sticking out beside me. The water is cool and refreshing, and the swift mountain water means it's unlikely to contain bacteria that would hurt me. I sit up, splashing more water onto my sweaty head. It's hot, the rocks not allowing many trees to grow. Thankfully the arena uniforms - athletic brown leggings and a white t-shirt, as well as a long brown jacket with warm fleece lining - are appropriate both for the hot days and the cold nights.
Panting slightly but greatly refreshed, I retie a loose shoelace and set about honing the edge of my sword on a smooth damp rock.
Over the scraping, it's a wonder I hear them coming at all.
As it is I whirl just in time to roll and avoid a strike that would have been lethal, the District 11 girl's spear shrieking against the rocky soil as it misses me and drives into the ground.
She was a soldier in the rebellion - for the rebels. She accused the Capitol during her interview of being monsters, showing a barely-healed scar from a bullet. Her brother is her district partner, and he's a fourteen year old carbon copy of his sister. They are dangerous, unhinged even. And now they are trying to kill me. Shade and Quinn; those are their names.
All these thoughts rush through my head in the few seconds it takes to grab my sword and leap to my feet, pushing my wet hair out of my face. Inwardly, I again curse the gamemakers for not giving us hats.
"Stay back, Quinn," Shade snarls, pushing her brother behind her. Her dark eyes are wild, and her hair is tangled, her lips drawn back in a feral snarl. She is skinny and her lips are chapped. Her brother looks exhausted. Wherever the two have been, they have not fared well. He can barely balance the hatchet he holds warily, staring at me from a few feet away.
Shade rushes me, holding the spear two-handed like a quarterstaff, and brings it down hard. I hold my sword at an angle in front of me and take a step back, allowing the heavy shaft to deflect away from me. Shade is like a desperate animal, raining blow after blow on me in an adrenaline-ruled rage. If I can tire her out, the fight will be mine.
"You have to make this hard, Two," she growls, still coming on. "I just need water. And to get Quinn home. But you're not going to let that happen are you."
"You shouldn't have rebelled," I hiss back. "If you wanted to protect him, you've already lost your chance."
Her blows are getting weaker and more erratic, and I begin searching for an opening to get underneath her guard. She shoves the spear forward at me, slower than usual, and I seize my chance.
Blocking the shaft with my blade, I jerk upward, catching the spear beneath the hand guard of my sword. I twist up and over, wrenching the spear from Shade's hands. She jumps back and falls. Then her eyes fill with terror.
"Quinn, don't!" she yells.
Oh no, I completely forgot about him. I turn, slashing out, and the boy folds over my blade with a small cry a second before his hatchet would have hit me between the shoulder blades.
Shade screams a tearing, animal sob and throws herself on her brother. Blood stains flood bright against his brown jacket, just beneath his ribs, and I see immediately that I struck true. His dark cheeks glisten with tears that squeeze out from under his eyelids, screwed tight shut, and he whimpers, his hand twitching.
"No, no, no, Quinn! Hold on, hold on! You're going home! I'm gonna bring you home, stay with me!" Shade is shrieking. Tears cover her face, wrung with more pain even than her brother's. Her hands scramble at his side, pulling up his shirt and she shakes with fresh sobs as he cries out and his devastated side is visible.
What have I done?
Suddenly I see not the skinny boy from District 11 but my own Maximus, little Max, covered in blood and sobbing as blood begins to trickle from his mouth. I can imagine my screams echoing Shade's as his eyes open and start to dull. What have I done?
I wanted the fighting to be over. I want to help the Capitol keep us safe. The districts were ungrateful and foolish and they brought pain on the whole nation! Eleven was a den of spies and rebels and insurgents!
But this boy was innocent.
He tried to protect his sister.
And I killed him.
She wraps her coat tightly about his waist, smearing blood across his dark skin. she pulls the coat tight, tying the sleeves, but Quinn is silent and his eyes stare sightlessly past her, up among the branches of a tall pine and toward the sun. The picture blurs, and again I see myself and Maximus.
The boom of a canon jerks me back, shaking and covered in sweat. I hear the dull clatter of my sword as it falls from my fingers onto the stones. I cover my face with my hands, shuddering with sobs. I killed him.
I have tried to defend those who could not defend themselves. To put myself in another's shoes, and help those less fortunate.
He attacked me...
I know the excuse is feeble, and I begin wondering too about the boy from Three. The turmoil is too much and I turn away, hands still covering my face.
Suddenly something slams hard into my back, knocking me down and skinning the backs of my hands.
"You monster! You demon!"
Shade is screaming at me, grabbing my braid and jerking my head back so hard my neck snaps back and forth until I see stars. Frightened now, I buck my body upward, heaving Shade off of me and scrambling to my feet. I begin backing away, my hands held in front of me, blood running down the backs. The girl staring at me is no longer human. Her face is a mask of blood and tears, dirt and snot, and her eyes are wild and bloodshot. Her hands too are covered with blood, and even her teeth are tinged pink from a split lip.
I am more frightened than I have ever been, and my feet move faster, until I am running backwards as Shade charges me again.
"You killed him! You murderer! You Capitol pawn! Fiend who feeds on children!"
I trip in my haste and fall back, Shade catching up and slamming me back, pinning my arms to my sides. My back hits something rough, and I realize she has backed me up against the pine tree. Past her shoulder I can see Quinn still lying in a pool of blood.
Shade's elbow smashes against my cheek bone and I fall sideways, twisting and writhing. She calls me a monster, and maybe I am, but right now she will tear my throat out, gouge my eyes, or beat me to death unless I can get away. I am an animal like her, and I must get away!
I twist and thrash, but she has me in a vise grip. I roll right, grinding her hand against the tree trunk, and with a cry of anger her grip loosens just for a moment. It's enough and I pull my left arm free, managing to trap her right wrist in a precarious grip. My left hand is not as strong as my right and at any moment my grip could slip and allow her to vent her rage.
I push and she slips back and slowly, agonizingly, I begin to sit up. Something in her face changes, calculates, remembers, and her eyes narrow. Before I can react she releases my other arm and slips her left hand toward her boot. Something flashes silver and I twist away with new terrified urgency but it's too little, too late.
Reaching across my body, Shade rams her knife to the hilt beneath my ribs, then pulls back for another strike.
Unbalanced by her sudden movement she falls back as I scream and kick out, leaping to my feet and running, running, running, clamping my arm over the horrible pain. Shade holds on, dragging behind me. I fall, taking us both to the ground and she is up first, kicking me savagely in the side as I twist away, tears starting in my stinging eyes.
Drawing back her leg to kick again, I do the only thing I can and grab her leg, screaming in pain as I yank it from under her. Then, tears streaming down my face, I run blindly.
Sticky warmth courses underneath my shirt and my hand keeps hitting the wound as I attempt to cover it while I run. I don't know how bad it is or what to do, only that I must get as far away from Shade as possible.
Demon, demon, demon.
Her words chase me, accusing me, holding me to listen. This is what Quinn felt. This pain, this fear. And he died.
I killed him, I killed him.
Monster.
Fiend who feeds on children!
What have I done?
I am crying and crying, not knowing how to stop, stumbling on rocks, scraping my knee, scrambling to my feet again, bruising my shin, getting up again, falling, rising, falling, rising, until I am barely running and stagger at every step.
At last, I pitch forward and cannot rise again.
It takes every ounce of strength and willpower I have to force myself onto my hands and knees, and in the pain and terror I am suddenly doing push-ups in the heat of the sun, the other cadets panting around me. Only I can't raise myself all the way up, and I'm being yelled at, and Trainer York is screaming at me, and then drives her boot into my side...
I am back in the arena, and behind me is a stony slope of slippery shale. In the distance is a stream, and someone hunched, and a body being lifted up into the silver maw of a Capitol hovercraft.
Below me is more rocks and grass and dryness, but at the bottom another stream.
Suddenly I am aching and thirsty and oh-so-tired. The searing in my chest has turned to a dull ache, and I know as soon as I try that I will never walk down the hill.
So I crawl, one hand in front of the other, and at last I slither, rocks tearing the fabric of my shirt to shreds, tearing into the wound, a trail of blood and threads of white fabric behind me, but I don't care. It's like the pain is happening to someone else, and there is only the glittering water and my sweaty face and my parched mouth and the scent of blood, and I know only that I must reach the stream.
At last, I do, but I can't stop crawling, my arms and legs locked into dragging me forward under the single minded focus that brought me down the hill. It is only when my face goes under that I stop.
I open my eyes, the water cool and cradling. I wrap my arms around myself and take a deep breath. But I am not so far gone as to ignore it when my lungs fill with water and I come up spluttering and shivering.
I am cold now, not hot, and shivering. My skin is clammy, and I want to be out of the water I worked so hard to reach. My stomach stings and I see numerous scratches from my crawl down the hill, a deep gouge on my arm mixes blood with the water saturating my shirt.
There is a small slit just below the ribs on my left side, and the shirt around it is blooming with a pink stain. I touch the numb spot beneath the slit gingerly, and am rewarded with a burst of searing pain. I cup my hand over the wound, pressing, knowing in some part of my brain that I must keep pressure on it, but I am so weak.
I crawl to the bank of the stream, resting my head on the grass, and breathe. Every breath hurts, and I can taste blood. I know that isn't right, but I can't think about it now. I fought hard, and now I need to rest. I'll treat my wound when I'm not so horribly tired. It's not so bad, really. When I wake up, probably it'll have mostly healed itself...
The sun is too bright, and the daisies in the grass are fuzzy and blurry. I reach out a hand, stroking the velvety grass.
Rest...
Steel was created for LadyCordeliaStuart's All Stars: The Killer Elite, a second-chance games for careers only. She was allowing both tributes who had actually died in her or other's SYOT's, and tributes that were created for the purpose of being resurrected. Steel was created for this, since I had no careers that actually died in past Games.
This story is the 3rd Hunger Games, where Steel died. I had fun with the idea of a service-oriented District 2 girl who genuinely wanted to help, and believed she was doing what was best. To see her moral dilemma play out as she is returned to life by Capitol technology and lives to fight another day, read LadyCordeliaStuart's All Stars: The Killer Elite. Maybe submit a career of your own!
As it is, whether you're reading this to get an idea of the mindset and character of Steel (aka if you're LadyCordeliaStuart), or if you're just a fanfictioner looking for a story, I hope you enjoyed and will leave some feedback!