Appaloosa was originally for Ten but the submitter was nice enough to switch, hence the name.
Philip Kozlov, District Ten- 13
I can't go to the Games. I have to work.
My brother was the only one who came to see me. My father said something about buying me a token and I knew he wouldn't be back until long after the train left. My mother was already at the bar when I got up, and she wouldn't be back until tomorrow. It was just me an Edison.
"I have to milk the cows. I have to shovel the manure. It's a mess. I have to check their water-"
"Don't worry about that now," Edison said, his words slurred from the morphling damage that would never go away, even if the therapy worked.
"I have to worry about it. I have to do my work," I said.
"That isn't your job anymore," Edison said. Before I could protest, he went on. "You have a new job now."
"A new job?" I asked. As long as I was working and staying useful, I didn't care what work it was.
"Your job is to win. Do your job," Edison said.
My job is to win. I could do that. I would go to the Capitol and get right to work. I'd never leave the training room. As soon as I got on the train I'd ask my mentor how I should start. I'd do anything he told me. I'd work hard and I wouldn't stop until I'd won.
"Then after I win I'll work on fixing Ten," I said. I couldn't just sit around, even if I was a Victor. I wanted to be a useful citizen of Ten. Once I'd won, I'd put my winnings to work making my District a better place.
"And Filly," Edison said, using the old nickname I loved so much, "Once you get back, you have to go to therapy, okay? You have to work on this."
"There's nothing to work on," I said, but it was just perfunctory. I really didn't think there was anything wrong. I knew all about addiction. You can be addiction to shopping, or alcohol, or drugs. You can't be addicted to work. Working hard is a good thing. But Edison wanted it so much, and I wanted to make him happy. "But okay."
"Okay," Edison said. He smiled, and it made me feel like I really could win. "You can do this. You're a hard worker. You work harder than anyone else in Ten. Just, when you get home, maybe take a vacation. You're gonna need a rest."
Melissa "Mel" Hedley, District Ten- 18
Night could be cold in Ten. We weren't as far north as Three or some of the other Districts, but when the sun went down, the weather could turn frigid. My skin prickled as I lay on my stomach in a tuft of grass, watching the cows. Night watch wasn't my official job- I was the vet's assistant on the huge cow farm my family worked on- but sometimes I volunteered. It was my only chance to practice a very unique skill.
Ten was just about the only place where a private citizen could possibly own a gun. The firearm I held belonged to the ranch in general. As much as the Capitol controlled the people, it couldn't control the pests. Coyotes were the same as ever, and they could be a real nuisance to the Capitol's steak supply. Under narrow conditions, Ten ranches could apply for permission to possess one single shotgun. Ammunition was provided by the Capitol a maximum of once per month, three shots per application. The only ammunition allowed was grapeshot, which could barely kill a coyote, much less a Peacekeeper. It meant I had to be a crack shot, which wasn't easy with a shotgun. That was sort of the idea with a shotgun.
A cow lowed, but that was nothing to be alarmed about. Cows were pretty dumb. They made noise for any reason or for no reason at all. It was a sudden, collective bolt I had to watch out for.I squirmed around on the hard ground, listening and watching all at once. A coyote howled somewhere across the flat, windswept field, and some of the cows looked up. Coyotes howled every night, and I enjoyed listening to them as long as they kept away from the livestock.
The yipping grew closer, and I drew the shotgun to my shoulder to prepare the shot. A calf squealed suddenly and the cows parted around him, save for his mother. I picked out the reflective pair of eyes close to the ground and took careful aim. It wouldn't do to maim the leg of an expensive side of beef. I squeezed the trigger before the moment was lost.
The coyote let out a yipping scream and rolled over itself as it fell. The mother cow pushed her calf away and I ran to the coyote's side. Its friends would have scattered, and if they hadn't, they wouldn't come back in to face both an army of cows and a gun. I smashed the stock of the shotgun into the coyote's twitching head to make sure it was dead.
It wasn't often I actually made a kill. The coyotes were cautious of the noisy shots and generally didn't try to take such well-guarded prey. In either case, I had to go home. We weren't allowed to carry more than one shell at a time. It was time for me to go home and listen to the rest of the coyotes howling in the night.
Mel's form said she did target practice, so naturally I assumed that meant guns and rolled with it. Rest assured it won't give her an unfair advantage, since there aren't guns in the Arena. She might have a jumpstart on ranged weapons in general, but she won't be unstoppable.
Melissa: Hair: Dark Blond Eyes: Moss Green Skin: Pale/Farmer's Tan Height: 5'6''
Philip: Philip is white, but has slightly tanned skin for working outside for long hours. He is very small and skinny for his age. He has a messy mop of dark hair, freckles, and brown eyes.