Foxface's P.O.V.
As I set my backpack down on the bumpy gold floor of the Cornucopia, I am deep in thought. I am so close to winning these wretched Games! It seems like years have passed since the gong sounded to signal the start of the Hunger Games. My mood dampened when I remember the life I left when my name was picked in the District Five Reaping. My life was virtually meaningless then. I got good grades in school, but my mother called me a "little twit" for "showing off" my smarts "like a good-for-nothing pest." I still remember when my told me I was an ugly brat who would never succeed in life. I was six at the time. Then I was bullied at school for my long hair and freckles. I told my parents about it, and they laughed and called me a freak. I learned to live on my own at age eleven. I learned about which berries and roots were edible, and which were poisonous. I could climb the power line towers with ease. I could build a fire out of almost any material. I rarely slept over at my parent's shabby house. The last time I did was a week before the reaping. My mother and father told me that they hoped I got picked for the Hunger Games because they wanted to see me die. They got her wish. Here I am in the Hunger Games. But unfortunately, I won't be killed anytime soon. I took a bag of nightlock berries out of my backpack and smiled. When I get back to District Five, I am going to feed those monsters nightlock berries.
I was so wrapped up in thought that I almost forgot about Cato, my last opponent. I had always respected him in an odd way. His manner of killing someone like it was no big deal impressed me. I always thought that a fight between us would be a fair fight. We would be testing this theory soon in a fight to the death. My only problem is that Cato almost certainly has a large crowd of rich sponsors catering to his every need. Who knows what kind of fancy weapons he has? I can imagine him bearing down on me with a machine gun in hand, just like the Peacekeepers back home. I only have a small knife, still covered in Katniss's blood. I also have a metal pot I could use as a shield. A thought came to my head that made me slap my head in annoyance. I forgot to take Katniss and Peeta's weapons! I know Katniss only had her bow and arrows, which I was decent at, but Peeta must've had some weapon, a machete, a spear, or even a mace! Maybe if I had time later, I could stop by that clearing and salvage for weapons.
I drink the rest of my water bottle and stand up. I should gear up for the final fight. I put on a winter jacket I took from a boy's pack. I put on the night-vision sunglasses that were in the backpack I snagged during the Bloodbath. I empty out everything in my backpack except for a first aid kit, the metal pot/shield, and the antidote. Finally, I slip the pouch of nightlock berries in my pocket. I am ready. The sun had just set. All I need to do is wait until it was completely dark, so I could have an advantage over Cato with my night-vision glasses.
Meanwhile, in the Control Room
A man in a white suit typed a string of words into a large computer and a series of holographic images appeared above the machine. They were all pictures of hideous creatures, creatures that were all being caged in a laboratory beneath the arena.
"Pick any muttation, Mr. Crane," stammered the nervous man sitting at the computer. Seneca Crane, the Head Gamemaker, stared at the choices.
"Name each one and tell me what they do," said Seneca.
"The first image of the giant snake is the Rattler," the man told Seneca, "and it hypnotizes the tributes with the rattle at the end of it's tail. All those dogs in the next image are the Wolverine tributes. They are designed to have the same eyes and hair color of the dead tributes. The next image of the dark wolf is the Howler. It's howl will cause earthquakes. And the faceless hyenas in the last image are the Mimics. They will terrify the strongest of people, and if you get bitten by one, you get horrible hallucinations and start to go insane. When their victims are weakest, they will begin to mimic the voices of the tribute's family members." The man at the computer looked up at his boss expectantly. Seneca's brow furrowed.
"It's such a pity District Twelve is dead. I know their minds were very fragile and those Wolverines would have really pushed her over the edge. That Finch girl from 5 and that Brodell boy from 2 are too strong minded for that. I want you to send the Howler and the Mimics into the arena."
"Both of them, sir?" asked the assistant in disbelief.
"Of course," said Seneca smugly. "After all, we don't want to disappoint the audience, now do we?"
