Hey everyone, Paradigm of Writing here with a brand new chapter of Sheep Led to Slaughter, Chapter #11: Formulaic Emotions. I am super excited to announce I have officially gotten over my terrible hump of tribute introductions (yes, I know there's twelve more tributes to meet, you'll meet them with the tributes' next four chapters as well), that always has stopped me in the past, as this is the last train ride chapter and I get to move onto bigger and better aspects of the games, something I am so excited about, as we also return to the Capitol storyline! Last chapter we met Milor Drusus, Lowelle Sable, and Caiden Grove, who are all hard to read, but I think you'll warm up to them. Enjoy Chapter #11: Formulaic Emotions.

Rochelle Pascal: District 3 Female P.O.V (15)

She is able to say without a doubt that she has never been more humiliated, and more embarrassed in her entire life. Getting called up to the reaping stage, some asshole girl from the eighteen year-old crowd with a strange vendetta against her knocking her glasses off of her face. Groping around blindly in the dark - dark in her eyes, or rather lack thereof - is embarrassing as the district goes in uproar, the escort takes pity on her, and she then trips up the stairs unceremoniously while fumbling to put her lenses back on.

That is Rochelle Pascal's morning, and she only wonders how everyone else's compared to her. She almost doesn't even move when the escort calls her name, reading it from the paper slip, as she tries not to go by that name anymore, Shelly sounding far more practical, but for the purposes of the Games, and for the Capitol, she has to march herself up there and die. She hears from the escort, as she is blindly looking for the very thing that helps her see, that the bully - Rochelle will use the word bully, but she prefers vigilante instead - only did it due to how ridiculous her glasses were... large wire frames, the left far bigger than the right, held together on a flimsy connective piece of electrical tape. Yes, she knows that it looks absolutely ridiculous, but who cares, it helps get her around.

Rochelle is lying down on one of the larger couches in the dining car, all the while her district partner is ravenously jumping from platter to platter, piling his plate a mile high with god knows what. She's never seen such exotic things. Like... what the hell is a crepe? What in God's good Earth is fondue? It sounds poisonous to her. Preferably, as Rochelle is watching her partner - she thinks his name is Deacon, something like that, something stupid - that she'd much rather go in the Games alone. Not even have him by her side, that doesn't seem to bad, because where is his manners? She shudders as he swallows pieces of fruit whole without chewing them, but that might be because the kid hasn't had anything to eat in the last four days. She doesn't know.

She also doesn't really want to ask.

The girl curls in on herself some, hands going down to her body. Her hands being present on her chest fills the back of her mouth with a severe distaste. As she is fumbling around for her glasses, there's talk behind her, talk from the people around her, voices who say nothing yet say everything at the same time. Rochelle pictures their faces perfectly, with talons and faces that sag like leather, scowls and snarling mouths twisted into cavernous holes for caves... and the words they say are barbed, puncturing, wounding, evil.

Where's her breasts? God, with that short hair she looks like a boy! Are you sure, mayor, that she's supposed to be in the girl section? She looks like you with a bit more makeup. I'd hate to be her and how ugly she looks.

Rochelle thinks she hears this, but it seems to come from mirrors in her house instead of the other way around, and as she hears these voices in the mirror, tones in the sky, she is pointing directly back at the mirror and criticizing it. Your frame is too big. You are dirty and have the reflective surface of dog shit. Yelling at inanimate objects is fun, even with your parents in the room. Although she is known not to be a scrapper by any sort of means, there's still a very noticeable gash on her right knuckle from when she slams her hand into it, shards of glass falling to the floor everywhere. As she picks a piece up, which cuts her, blood as black as her hair at this point, sounds come from it, hushed whispers, and she drops it to the ground. It is a sound of her screaming, as if she had drawn the shard quickly across her skin.

"There's no need for that," Rochelle tells herself whilst laying on the couch, "A Career will most likely do that to me with a sword..."

She feels like, if someone were to ever hear her thoughts or see the things she has gone through, Rochelle has to point out that she isn't suicidal. With her short, dark hair, she also doesn't feel any attraction to other women either... she is just... misunderstood. Looking back over at her district partner, at Deacon, hands going back to the side of her head to remove the notice that there is no form to her chest like some fifteen year-olds, she cannot stop watching him eat like a damn idiot without any manners. Not to mention that the sounds are absolutely repulsive.

"Hey, do you mind not eating to sloppily? It's gross and I am sick of hearing it," she snaps, sitting upright.

Her district partner, that dumb boy named Deacon - were his parents high on bath salts when he is given that name at the hospital, or what? - who has his fork hallway in his mouth, stops, slamming it down on the plate. "Well, excuse me princess. Sorry for enjoying myself."

"You can enjoy yourself in a more dignified manner."

"How about you go screw off?" Deacon makes a fake smile. "Can you do that for me?" He picks up his plate and storms out of the dining car, in the direction of his room at the back of the train.

Rochelle watches him go, keeping an eye on his rear end - hot damn, she's never seen something so perfect. Hey, it's there for her to look! Don't judge! - and then trails her eyes up as he enters through the sliding glass door. Then, sticking a hand on her hip. "Happily," she scowls, going to lie back down, this time in peace and quiet, a wonderful peace and quiet.

She knows she shouldn't be so damn judgmental of someone that she's never met, it is something Rochelle is trying to get better at, but there are certain things that just rub her the wrong way. Sloppy manners, especially towards eating. Partner work in a group. Being single. Being overwhelmed by the fact that she is in the Hunger Games now, and there's no getting out of it. She needs to stop being so judgmental of herself, but when the fake whispers start, there's nothing that can make them stop.

Looking back, looking past the old parts of herself, the things she's tried leaving behind, they all seem to follow her and wreak havoc in her life when let on the loose. There's nothing she can do about it, in a sense that is because Rochelle is allowing that to happen, but then, just then, looking at Deacon and his underwhelming presence in the dining car, Rochelle snaps because she allows it. How can she worry so heavily about what other people think of her when all she does is criticize?

Rochelle tries putting a positive spin on that ideal, if she even can, but keeps coming up empty with a decently reasonable answer, nothing sound in her evidence of what being a bitch does for other people. She gets told all the time - okay, primarily by her parents, but that's a whole other matter - how nice and kind she is, how humble she is for having the mind of Machiavelli, a tyrant at the knowledge game. Rochelle is able to recite the entire Alphabet in four different languages yet uses incorrect grammar when speaking English, but she tries forgetting that ever happens.

She sits up suddenly, going back to the Machiavelli comparison. A renowned writer, putting into perspective some transformative works on ruling and philosophy... and of course, his amazing intelligence. She sits up higher now, back resting against one of the arms of the couch, the cogs in her brain twisting and turning. She isn't malicious, Rochelle isn't a fighter, but she's a quick learner, at cheetah speed... and she then looks back at the way Deacon had exited from, water vapor creating clouds inside her brain, the reflection of an azure sky, of a perfect day.

Strategy.

How she can be Machiavelli, be loved by the people, to be loved by the Capitol populace, and win the damn thing. She looks down at her hands, smooth hands, extremely pale hands, but hands that have worked arduously, fingers that have never curled around the hilt of a sword as she swings back and forth at the trainer. How it seems too good to be true that she can do this, despite her affinity for a lack of physical activity.

Rochelle swings her legs up and over the couch, a grin growing on her face.

"Who needs sleep..." she tells herself. "I have work to do!"

Standing up, Rochelle pushes down her hair a bit flatter, then pulling down on the hem of her skirt. There's someone on this train very important to her, very valuable, and it all starts with two little words.

Two little words that Rochelle does not often say in her day to day life as common as she wishes to, even though her family has taught her the upmost level of respect they could has her thinking thoughts like Deacon's name is stupid, or that Deacon should be dead before long... he has to let Deacon find his own way, without Rochelle's interference in his plains. Maybe there'd be a way...

Rochelle dashes out of the dining car in the same direction as Deacon when they got on, hands by her sides.

It looks like she'll need her district partner on her side.

And from first glance, Rochelle feels like it is going to suck.

Galiant Rushmohone: District 8 Male P.O.V (15)

"You couldn't win the Games, no way," says fifteen year-old Galiant Rushmohone, he crossing his arms and legs together, tilting his head somewhat at his district partner, a skinny, quite frail looking Indian girl named Marina. His comment stems from the fact, while they're talking just to keep the awkwardness down, that she has hope, this tiny little old thing has hope about victory. "Just look at you."

"You aren't a Career yourself, you know," Marina snaps back at him. "Your chances of winning are just as good as mine."

Galiant runs a hand through his long blonde hair, long enough that it sometimes obscures his eyes, keeping his arms crossed, but he doesn't say anything just yet back to that. Actually, he does, in his head. You don't know me. You don't know what I can and what I can't do. Truth be told, only a fifteen, Galiant is pretty sure there's a lot he cannot do and he's okay with that, but there's so much deep down inside him he cannot tell the outside lest they'll judge him, lest they'll poke holes in his story and that is not about to happen. Statistically - yes, Galiant knows full and well he is pulling this out of his ass - District 8, and District 8 males specifically, are at greater odds to win the Games. After all, it is their own Cranston Ervack from District 8, the mayor's son, who wins the very 1st games, tributes chosen and taken in the night by the Capitol who were in some marquee standing in the early onset Panem. So, even though Galiant doesn't know anything about archery and is not the son of some district mayor - shit, he wishes he is, not just some drunk ass lady who swears all the time - there could be a good chance for him to win.

An even greater chance to die, however.

Everything about him screams designed incorrectly, from the fact he does not live in a shabby looking house, yet the people inside it are worse for wear. He is tall, but skinny with no bulk to him. He has a sharply lined jaw, and softness comes out. There's a solid stone for his body, and a melting heart of gold. It changes temperature by day, usually lowering, but he has to handle what he gets. There are nights that Galiant cries himself to sleep, feeling as worthful as a pence piece, but then there are nights he is on top of the moon as if he just managed to snag tesserae for the eightieth time in a row and he'll be eating bread till he dies... which could be next week.

All due to the woman who smokes, all due to the woman who holds a frying pan in one hand, a liquor bottle in the other. All due to the man who does not appear in the family photos, who has held his son by the throat against the wall in a drunken stupor of his own... and Galiant blinks it all away with mornings of anger, spewing words of hatred, and arrogance that he is above it all.

There is no way he is not getting reaped. His name is in that bowl almost two hundred times, he standing there in that line to apply so much that a Peacekeeper tells him that no family goes this hungry anymore, not even in District 12, not with Calhoun starting to phase out things... that he is going on a suicide mission, and Galiant nods his head, he nods his head hard. Had he not been reaped, he would repeat the process, going to try and snag two hundred and one times his slip is in the see-through bowl. He has thought about bashing the sea serpent's head up against a wall, craving the way it lights up his skin, the way his already pale soul turns translucent, light filtering through him, and how the copper streaks start to run down his hands.

So, when he does, Galiant simply closes his eyes and smiles. He wants to win this so badly, but talking about it like he will to anyone else is just a sign of arrogance, something he is readily to equip at any moment's notice, Marina seeming like good target practice.

Marina runs a hand nervously down her leg, over the fabric of her dress, she looking down at her hands, then back up at Galiant, who is off staring outside the window of the train car they're in, the sun starting to set. They'll be arriving at the Capitol within the hour, he's pretty sure, and he doesn't need Marina looking at him all the time.

"Clearly you want to say something, so say it, you idiot," he says, and the insult seems to come out of his mouth like water off of a wing. She doesn't seem perturbed by it.

Apparently, as Galiant has heard from her, since Marina does not shut up apparently - since she's such an idiot, it probably isn't her vocabulary to be quiet, he thinks to himself, adding an ounce of snark to his inward tone - she has a head for numbers and is helping the mayor with running the political Games side of District 8. He knows that has to be a bit macabre, but it this is coming from the boy, ever since he turns eleven that he watches the Games with earnest, cheering on his favorites, booing when they're killed, entertaining the idea for moments in time, stuck in amber, that he'll be there one day, but Galiant never wishes it fully, not truly. There's so much more in life than going at a young age and dying. He isn't stupid, even his arrogant self knows he won't last a full day.

Then, Galiant, why did you sign up for tesserae so much? Why did you put yourself in a suicide mission like this?

The back of his throat is liquid fire, it scalding and hurting whenever he opens his mouth to speak. "It completes me," he says, hanging his head low.

"How many times was your name in the reaping jar today?" she asks him.

Galiant presses one elbow on the windowsill, raising his eyebrow. He didn't think that'd be the question she'd ask. "197," he answers, and even saying it aloud, a chill runs through his body.

Marina's eyes widen, as if someone stabbed her in the gut with a spear made of ice. Galiant feels shame wash over his body, as he's broken the record, announced happily, oh so damn happily by the escort of Galiant's achievement - perhaps he is a bit more macabre than he likes to be, more than Marina, if this is his greatest achievement - that he has the highest amount of slips in the reaping, not just for District 8, but for the entire history of the Hunger Games across all twelve districts for the last hundred years. Even the Career volunteers who leap forward at the opportunity, they have slips in the bowl as well, and it is ironic sometimes when they're reaped, choosing to volunteer as is, but still.

"197..." Marina repeats, her facial expression aghast.

"Yeah, I know. It's a lot," Galiant says, wanting the conversation to end already. He doesn't know this girl, he doesn't have any prior connections with her, so why is she forcing something on him like this? What kind of sick and twisted girl is she to do this to him? "A lot more than anyone else. Hadn't I not been picked... I probably would've volunteered then."

"Why would you do something awful like that?"

"Perhaps I just really like the Hunger Games and really want to go," Galiant replies sardonically, keeping one elbow on the windowsill, he now resting his head up against it. You're lying. You just made sure that this year is the year you were picked... you knew what you were doing.

Marina runs a hand down her leg nervously again. "I heard that there was a tribute that had signed up for tesserae so many times, like... I don't even know how many times it said..."

"Sixty-two times, Marina," Galiant squeezes his eyes shut, even admitting this fact is going to cause him to cry and dammit, he does not cry in front of thirteen year-old little idiot girls like Marina Penweather just because she's his district partner.

Her eyes widen even more than that, her reaction a lance in his heart. "Why so many times, Galiant?"

He gives a weak smile, his voice dissipating at the end. "Because it got me away from my mother. I'd stand there in line for two hours a day, because I needed something to do, and I needed the food. I felt more loved by the district officials who ran that office than my home..." he looks away again, Galiant actually having to bite down on his tongue to stem the emotional flow.

Marina sits forward some, going to rest a hand on his leg, but Galiant recoils away sharply, even hissing. Her face falls. "I'm sorry, Galiant. I wish you could've had better parents..."

"Parent," Galiant corrects. "My father? Who knows where the hell he is. My mother? Instead of being a physicist like she wanted to, when my dad left, she turned to drinking. I have a drunkard whore for a mom..." and then he breaks, Galiant scooting forward, hands going to his eyes, a wail erupting from his throat as he sits there in that chair, with the setting sun, Marina's gentle hand on his back rubbing circles into his shoulder blades, as he weeps, as he sobs, as he cries as if God has granted him permission.

The world didn't give Galiant Rushmohone any love.

Why should Galiant Rushmohone give any love back to the world?

Perhaps learning how to kill in the arena will be the best way for him to enact revenge on the cruel injustices of an already cruel unjust society... perhaps it'll be the way he can use his death journal, where he writes the deaths he'll fantasize about on other people, maybe he can use that, so Galiant has the excuse, the rightful excuse to call himself a monster of the Underworld.

These emotions are formulaic, and Galiant knows this.

As he hides in the corner, or in his closet, his mom looming over him with the frying pan in one hand, swigging from the bottle, there's the crash and smash of something heavy down on his skull and then Galiant's world goes dark.

Perhaps all of this is a dream now... and Galiant is truthfully not going to his death.

It'd be quite the dream.

Galiant hopes he never wakes.

Blake Hanley: District 9 Male P.O.V (18)

It seems that the world does not want Blake Hanley, eighteen now, not even needing to go into the district for tesserae, to grow old. It seems as if that is something he cannot check off of the bucket list anymore, 'growing old', and oh how he wants to do it so badly. There's so much he can do, but instead he is sitting down on the most uncomfortable seat on the entire Capitol train to head off towards the Hunger Games, and here he is, reaped, on the last year this can happen, almost out of the grasp of Panem's vicious claws, inching away as fast as he can, and then he's snagged. Blake doesn't even cry when he's picked... he just shrugs his shoulders, tilts his head back and laughs.

He only cries, of course, when he says goodbye to his parents, brother, and girlfriend. Then does Blake allow himself a miniature release of emotion, cathartic in nature like he expects. He laughs only because, of course, it's a Quarter Quell. If he is going to die in the arena, he might as well die the most gruesome way possible instead of just a sword to the stomach, which he expects would be the usual way to go out. Now, he is going to probably be forced to have sex with some tree while creatures in said tree shoot tiny arrows at him. His wild sense of imagination has no bounds.

What has always made him the most uncomfortable about the reapings, of course forgetting the looming fact that any one of them can be picked to die - Exhibit A, Blake Hanley, please stand up - is how similar it looks like home, even though home is a good mile away walk from the heart of District 9. He lives in a world called The Circle, and he calls it a world because it honestly is. It is a part of the district, that once stepping into it, it is an entirely new and different environment, one that causes shivers to run up his spine and freak out, not understanding exactly why home gives him the creeps.

The Circle gets its name due to its shape, designed like the namesake, perfect in structure, probably overseen by the very first Panem president. Blake steps on historic ground, historic blood-soaked ground. Rumor has it, from those who might still be alive from the early days, around the 9th or 10th Hunger Games and in their nineties, that this area, The Circle, is the last battle of the rebellion against the Capitol, and the Capitol wipes the rebel army off the face of Panem with the most vile sorts of weapons that can be found, and the death toll across all the districts is a staggering number that even the most hearty and Capitol-supporting people of District 9 have to lose their lunch over... and so it is this fact that warms and tickles the very foundations of Blake's heart.

The Circle is the primary market for the district, where all the shops are, the Hanley family running one. The first thing his district partner asks him, a girl named Marissa who seems more plain-Jane than anyone he has ever met, is that she recognizes him by joining her father on trips to The Circle and stopping by their store for supplies, is if Blake is rich. It is a known fact that there are merchant classes in every other district, including poor old District 12, which Blake is surprised to hear given usually how gravelly and hideous everyone from that coal exhibit looks like, soot colored hair and survival skills like a toddler. Blake leans his head back and laughs - second time he's laughed in the day - at her comment, because Blake Hanley is not rich, he's not in the 'Merchant Class' of District 9's economy, as such a thing does not exist, he's simply a 'Merchant' living in a slovenly built house behind their shop, poor as the rest of District 9, but a different type of poor.

For all the years of the Hunger Games that he's been eligible to be reaped, Blake never stops by the district office to sign up for tesserae, as his poorness only goes toward certain aspects of his life. He is never starving, meager portions sure, but content enough to fill his heart. Living in District 9, there's an abundance of bread all around him, so much in fact that he feels overwhelmed by it, a joy, but overwhelmed.

Blake wants to call it chance, pretty much, that Marissa, his district partner, has ever seen him, as he's always out in the fields harvesting his share of the work, trying to work as fast as he can to do more down the breadline in duties he has to perform. He isn't bothered by the work, touching the stalks and the ears and everything in between crop and grain wise has always filled him with a sense of calming, only ever rising in rage underneath his skin the moment a Peacekeeper comes running over and starts beating one of the other coworkers with a whip because they aren't 'harvesting' fast enough.

He has to quell the rage in him to never snap back. "You think it is so easy? You come here and do it then?" That'll get him whipped, and maybe worse, and all Blake has to do is open his smart-ass mouth once and he'll get it handed to him in a way he doesn't want it to be handed to him.

He works in the fields until dusk, fingers sore, skin cracked and bleeding, and he's exhausted, but Blake Hanley is proud, because he's skating by while his parents keep the shops up. He makes it back in time throughout the day to see the executions, mutilations, the punishments... and it is why The Circle is known for being blood-soaked ground beyond that battle in the rebel war. The Circle, given its permanent design, is the place where the Peacekeepers hold and host all of the judgments for breaking the law, and Blake has to watch as some old mother with five kids is stealing from one of the local shops - just an extra piece of bread, they all beg - and they lose the arm that did the stealing... and that is perhaps even worse than death, as no arms means you cannot work in District 9... and Blake keeps his hands in his pockets.

However, one night, as Blake is coming home from work, those hands nearly come out of his pockets. It is a normal night, the stars out, the air getting warmer and warmer as the season begins shifting into the heart of summer, when he stops dead in the entrance way to The Circle, eyes locked face-to-face with the terrified look of his brother, Jack, being held down by Peacekeepers, fighting and fighting so hard that the Peacekeepers have to gag him. The blade is raised high, it falls down, and Blake's brother loses his right arm.

All Blake can see is red. He's seen many of these operations and punishments over the years, and it is terrible for him to admit that he is desensitized to all of it, but for a second, in his ledger, all he sees is pure fury, crimson marking the ground, as seeing his family lose a limb, to lose their own copper river of life... he makes a start forward, Jack's eyes widening in between the pain and his screams, that Blake stills in his motions, ready to go blazing saddles on the Peacekeepers. There's only four in the square, he could probably take them... but that means Blake knows he's going to lose more than just a limb if he engages in said action... so he stops.

The look on his brother's crestfallen face haunts Blake to this day, and it is been a month, he unable to remove it, unable to get it out of his head.

He strains a bit from his seat, too lazy to find a new place to sit, when the sky seems to brighten tenfold from the already sitting sun. There... there it is, and he always thought the place is some sort of myth, a fake gilded palace covered in ice or shimmering jewels... but it is real. The Capitol sits on the horizon.

Blake swallows heavily.

There's no turning back. There's no more regrets he can hold onto... he has to go out there and win the Hunger Games.

He can't get his brother's face away from his memory, his brother now jobless, one arm less... and he might very well lose - Jack, that is - his own brother too.

Blake needs to win.

Blake can win.

He can do this... he thinks.

It seems as if he might need all the help he can get.

The 100th Hunger Games has finally arrived, the 4th Quarter Quell on its way, and all Blake Hanley is going to be is one more little sheep led to the slaughter.

Hey, a 5k chapter! Right on! Anyways, that was Chapter #11: Formulaic Emotions, the last of the four train ride chapters, and so far we've met Colt (D12 M), Maisey (D4 F), Hero (D10 M), Annabellina (D5 F), Marcus (D1 M), Peri (D7 F), Milor (D2 M), Lowelle (D6 F), and Caiden (D11 M). Now, with this one, we've met Rochelle (D3 F), Galiant (D8 M), and Blake (D9 M)… and that's just half of the group, wait until you meet the other twelve!

I hope you guys are just as excited as I am, because again, I haven't reached this point in any of my SYOTS and this is just the icing on the cake that we're here. The next chapter, Chapter #12: Under the Veil, will probably be posted sometime next weekend, maybe early in the week since you know me, but I do go back to college and the semester literally starts on Monday, the 7th, so there might be a bit longer to get chapters out, as god, I've written nine chapters for this story since December 22nd, a twelve day period where I just wouldn't stop writing, haha. Chapter 12 is the tribute parade, you'll meet another four characters, and then we get back to those Capitol storyline chapters too which I am so excited about.

What do you think of our new three tributes today? What about the rest we've met on the train rides... and have you been able to pick out contenders? Excited to see what you all think! I love you all so much, and thank you for the characters you've created as this story obviously won't be happening without you guys too giving me these tributes. Give yourself a pat on the back. And please review, as you know I'd greatly appreciate it. We're into Phase 3 of the story, the area before the Bloodbath... which I am aiming to be Chapter 22, so only eleven chapters away. Have an amazing day you guys! Thanks again! Bye!

~ Paradigm