3:01AM, Hidden location in the Capitol...
The room is minimalistic, only having a single table in the center with people seated around it. The door opens, grabbing everyone's attention. The three people sitting at the table silence their conversations to greet the final member of their meeting.
Helen nods her head as she takes a seat at the end of the table. She takes a moment to smooth her lab coat and readjust her glasses. She places her tablet on the table before clearing her throat.
"My apologies, I was held up," she explains.
"It's fine my dear, no one will fault you for devoting your time to the arena," A man in a suit says.
"That's greatly appreciated, thank-you Osmon."
Osmon smiles, "now, I believe we have a meeting to start?"
"Quite. I'll start with you Miss Volthound, how is your tribute?" Helen asks, turning to face the other woman in the room.
"Magnus will perform, of that I assure you," Geneva Volthound answers smartly.
The director of OnRush is not a woman to be trifled with. She's worked on this passion project for nearly two decades, and depending on Magnus' success these games, district 3 may very well gain the right to become a career district themselves. Simply put, OnRush is the academy in 3. Given's 4 lax and poor performances, the Capitol will hardly bat an eye if a new district replaces them, at least, that's what she wishes to believe.
Thankfully, it's an idea Helen Levenezque supports. And for that, Geneva answers to her.
"Anything less than a final 8 finish will make it impossible to authenticate OnRush. You do understand this, correct?"
"Of course, Miss Levenezque. I assure you, Magnus is unrivaled in our facility. If he does not perform, I'll personally begin with the termination of OnRush."
"Thank-you," Helen responds, turning her attention back to the man in the suit, "Osmon, how was your trip to the lumber district?"
The older man chuckles, "well, if you've watched the parade, then surely you know I've brought quite the souvenir."
Helen reaches for her tablet, "Locust Sequoia, he's certainly impressive."
"Indeed, a fitting man for the games. As requested,"
"Yes, I'm amazed you were able to find such a perfect fit," Helen openly praises.
"A contender for the games, he may very well win them… assuming you allow it that is," Osmon says.
"It comes down to entertainment, Osmon. If he's entertaining, he will continue to do so."
She leaves the other half of the sentence unsaid. After all, if he's no longer entertaining, he's no longer needed. That's just how the games are.
"Mister Barns, how did your tests go, your initial reports were cryptic at best."
"I'm terribly sorry about that Miss Levenezque. The arbol muttations are difficult to sedate once angered. Just dealing with one enraged subject gave us 6 casualties, 2 of which were fatalities. I have a more updated report, I'll send it over now," The man finishes, reaching for a tablet of his own.
Helen hears a small chime emit from her tablet, but ignores it in favour of questioning her lead muttation designer, "how did you allow 2 fatalities?"
The man grimaces, "a miscalculation. They develop highly territorial behaviourisms when inside forests, something I failed to notice during preliminary testing. This normally isn't a concern when in their dormant forms, but the moment my team coaxed it awake, it went berserk."
Helen's mouth thins, and she readjusts her glasses at the news, "I see, and your other mutts?"
"All complete ma'am."
"Very well. Compensate the families. Then, begin placing the arbol mutts in their designated quadrants," Helen instructs.
Cronus Barns bows his head, "of course Miss Levenezque."
"You're dismissed. Both of you."
Cronus and Geneva stand, nod their head and then exit. Helen leans on her arms, resting her hands before her face. Osmon remains seated, patiently waiting for her to say what's on her mind. After a few seconds of hesitation, she eventually speaks up.
"Do you believe what I'm doing is right?" Her voice is calm, betraying nothing of what she may feel.
Some may think it a test, or perhaps a crack in her resolve. Osmon chuckles at the notion, she's simply curious. Always a studious girl growing up, she much preferred hearing the opinions of others rather than give one herself.
What she is doing, isn't wrong. But, one can always argue the matter of subjectivity. Anything to do with changing the games will have some overreaching impact on the Capitol. Some people do not like change. She wonders if forcing it upon them is the right decision.
It's a pointless train of thought, as he knows Helen's ambition demands she sees her plan to the end. This golden opportunity was given to her on a silver platter, even she didn't expect it so soon. President Nova did something right for once, Osmon thinks humorously.
"Of course. We've waited years for this chance. I'll see to it that next year brings your wish to fruition."
"Next year is a Quarter Quell, it's not like a reaping," Helen says skeptically.
To anyone hearing, the innocuous statement wouldn't have any other meaning, it's a painfully obvious observation. Osmon knows better.
"All the same, we'll have the result you desire."
Helen stares at him impassively as she readjusts her glasses, to Osmon it vividly paints the picture of nervous skepticism. She's shrewd and very cautious, she never would have been a suitable replacement if she didn't have these characteristics.
"Thank-you Osmon, your words are most appreciated."
"Think nothing of it. Now, you should get some sleep, you'll have some tributes to score, I believe."
"Yes, that's correct. But, before I go, here, I want you to deliver this," Helen says, fetching into her lab and taking out an envelope.
Osmon takes the beige envelope, looking it over, "Atlantis? The academy in 4?"
"Correct, next year I want careers. Assuming the twist is the same one previously discussed, then they wouldn't have an excuse not to deliver careers, even if they aren't 'ready'."
"That is true. Very well, I'll see to it that it's delivered."
"Once again, Thank-you."
"Once again, think nothing of it. I'll take my leave tomorrow morning, good night Helen."
The man stands and he too bows before exiting. He leaves Helen in the room and makes his way through the labyrinth hallways. The plan is in motion, and with any luck, these games will plant the seed. The next will bear the fruits. To think this all happened because of President Nova spur of the moment impulse.
Osmon relishes in the idea with laughter.
POV – Judah Rockefeller
8:57AM
Judah fixes the collar of his tracksuit as he anxiously walks around the facility. It's the last day, he'll have one final lunch to talk to tributes, to form alliances.
The thought makes him smile bitterly. It's been a disaster from start to finish. Day 1, he spoke to Calder Lynch, a capable-looking ginger-haired boy from 4. He reminded Judah a bit of a ruffian with his posture, but he didn't see anything overtly threatening in Calder. His conversation ended, well, the word Judah would use is poorly.
Poorly sums it up perfectly he thinks. Not disastrous, he does not expect the boy from 4 to hold any grudges or resentments for what came across as harmless conversation. But, the evident signs of annoyance and frustration were showing by the end of lunch, and Judah knows when to respectfully bow out.
At worst, Calder would simply avoid him in fear of having his ear talked off. Judah chuckles to himself, if he could have everyone avoid him through such a method, he'd be the first willing to attempt it. A shame most of these careers would sooner opt to kill him.
A much easier solution, he concludes cynically.
Day 2 was even worst than the day prior, he approached the tribute from 3, but could not so much as good a word in edgewise before the tribute stood up and forgone lunch altogether.
The very action was humiliating as it drew a few prying eyes. Thankfully, it was quickly shoved under the rug as the 2 male careers decided to pin their egos in a clash of misplaced bravado. A momentary respite. Discovering that the boy from 1 was not a part of the career alliance also piqued his curiosity. Judah was tempted to make his way and speak to him but given his lack of success decided against it.
Speaking of failure, Mila as an ally was the first, he concluded was out of the question. She's cunning, and has a determined gaze that Judah knows will have her see these games through to the end. She'd kill him without so much as flinching. A shame, he'd love to learn more about her.
Those from 8 are glued to the hip. The boy may have seemed easy to manipulate, as he didn't appear all that intelligent, but the girl has a sharp hawk-like look in her gaze, never letting anyone unknowingly enter her vicinity. She's perceptive. It also appears to him that the duo from 8 are working together.
9 and 11 both look to be duos as well. The girl from 9 and boy from 11 being far too perceptive to willingly add a sick crippled tribute like himself.
Judah squeezes his hands tight at the thought. His sickness, this wretched sickness is debilitating him from making anything work. 12 was full of clueless idiots, those you could easily manipulate and misdirect. But the moment he's reaped to the games, everyone seems to pick up on his intentions, his sickness, and his overall uselessness.
He's avoided like the plague, no, even worst, he's avoided like a bloodbath, and it angers him. But, he must admit that it also terrifies him. Because if he were the person outside looking in, he'd come to the very same conclusions. In a fair fight, Judah would be killed, by any tribute. Even the young innocent looking girl from 7 could dispatch him, and if she struggled to do so, she could always target his chest to deliver him unholy agony.
His chronic pain has limited his ability to do physical activities for 3 years now. At the age of 14, he fell terribly ill, his death all but assured. The treatments he received weren't supposed to work, and yet, he continued to breathe. It only cost him his physical stamina. And now he's perpetually weakened, with some of the symptoms of the illness persisting. To add to it, he's been reaped to the games as well.
He could not have been dealt a worse hand.
Judah stops before the trap station and slowly takes a seat. He only has the morning left, but he might as well devote some more time learning some survival skills. That's not to say he ignored it these last two days. It's just, his focus was predominantly on acquiring allies, as helpful as that commitment was for him.
He's just going to refresh his memory on trap making, he's not adept at it, but it's something he could put some solid time into, as opposed to the range, gauntlet, sparring, weapons station, obstacle course, one gets the idea.
He knows he won't even be on par with the tributes of 8, more than once stealing glances at the pair as they worked away at their own contraptions. It certainly put a damper on Judah's mood, where he knew people had him in terms of physical strength, his intelligence is what he prides himself in. To see others beat him even in his own element.
Well, it's beyond demoralizing. His only consolation was learning that the pair from 8 are quite adept, if not prodigal in trap making. As it turns out, learning from them was as, if not more beneficial than the expert.
It's what he intends to show the gamemakers. Nothing else comes to mind, the social aspect of the games isn't something one can really show during private sessions anyways. Not that he has anything to show for.
If Judah knew this was going to be all for naught, he'd have remained recluse, quiet away in the comforts of silence. Despite being charismatic and knowing how to navigate a conversation, he isn't one who actually enjoys it.
Much preferring the comfort of his own company, and the company of a book. His illness brought the charismatic rogue in him to light, seeing as the treatments were cripplingly expensive, he needed to support his parents.
Stealing from unsuspecting people just came naturally to him.
Unfortunately, not naturally enough. He can't for the life of him acquire one single competent ally. He smiles bitterly at the thought; the truth of the statement could not be further emphasized.
POV – Vortex Senna
12:02PM
Vortex is feeling the pressure, the anxiety, his throat feels tight. In just an hour, the private sessions begin, the beginning of the end, he thinks with a dry laugh. Everything was just a prologue, just a prefix, just the speed bump before everything really starts to pick up.
Vortex has been avoiding Icarus ever since the unnerving conversation he had after the parade. He was dead tired the next morning and couldn't learn anything at all, not to mention how entirely uncomfortable it was to spend time with someone as excitably manic as his mentor. That being said, he has to agree with some things his crazy mentor said, finding a strong ally to work with. Vortex believes he found just that.
Calder is a softie, a pushover who thinks he's scarier than he really is. He's different from Corolla. Where she's mean and has bite to her comments, Calder never says anything with feeling, as if he's putting up airs.
He might be willing to team up with Vortex. His softie tendencies aside, Calder's strong, he's tall and physically in shape, his tracksuit hugs his muscles, only further emphasizing his strength.
Vortex wants him as an ally. He just has to be very gentle, very patient about it. That's okay with him, he might not have any other redeeming quality about him, but he's certainly patient. His friends should be the testimony of that. He handles Jaycee's alcoholism, Snow's absent-minded tardiness and Yago's vicious mood swings with practiced ease. He just needs to add Calder's perpetual flight-or-fight response to the list of eccentricities he's dealt with, and voila! New ally!
Speaking of allies, Vortex turns behind him, staring at his new one. Newton Faraday, simply put is surprisingly helpful. Vortex met him yesterday after lunch when the boy from 5 was giving him tips on self-defense of all things.
Newt doesn't even look like he could harm a fly and here he comes telling Vortex that eyes, groins and under the jaw are key places to target. It stupefied Vortex immediately, but when the expert agrees is when Vortex knows just how useful Newt can be.
Newt's just so unassuming, Vortex didn't even notice him until that very moment, in the sparring station. Hell, Newt was told to stop sparring, as experts were getting hurt fighting him. They called him ruthless and slippery.
He's 14 too. Just as old as Vortex, how twisted is that? Vortex can be patient with others, but can he fight? He doesn't think so, no, he knows so. He's nothing like Newt. That was why he approached the boy about an alliance.
Icarus has to approve, Newt hits the nail on the head in terms of usefulness. To think Vortex found this hidden gem, just aimlessly doing stations all on his own. His partner joined the career pack, it should have been obvious that he didn't have an alliance.
Newt accepted Vortex's proposal immediately and the two have stuck together since.
But that's enough reminiscing, Vortex needs to see how well Calder will handle having two people sitting with him. The only consolation is that Newt looks just as boyish as him, so maybe Calder won't be too alarmed.
He doubts the boy from 4 knows just how dangerous Newt can be. Vortex even struggles to wrap his head around it.
"Hey, Newt, follow me, I want to introduce you to someone," Vortex says, smiling at his ginger-haired ally.
"Lead the way," comes the excitable response.
And he does. The two get their trays and finds Calder sitting a… not alone? Vortex pauses, looking at the unfamiliar duo sitting with him.
The two have their backs to him, so Vortex can't read their district numbers. That's fine, he can sort of identify them through their colours. Forest green stands for 7, and white for 10. They look even shorter than Vortex too, what is happening here?
Calder's rests his elbow on the table, his face covered by an open palm. He looks, well exasperated. Vortex thinks he hears a soft sigh and notices Calder's gaze from behind his fingers flicker from his tray of food to the two tributes sitting before him. Then, his dark grey eyes travel even further up and connect with Vortex.
He grins in response, making Calder sigh again. He's doing that a lot.
"Room for 2 more?" Vortex asks.
The two tributes turn to face him. Their child-like faces stare at him before turning to face Calder.
"Do what you want," He says in a defeated tone, poking his fork into some mashed potatoes.
You softie, Vortex thinks smugly. He wordlessly takes a seat at the table and starts to eat, doing the same strategy as yesterday.
"Hey there, my name's Newt, nice to meet you all," His ally says taking a seat at the table, feeling perfectly at home talking to three new strangers.
"I'm Cooper, nice to meet you,"
"My name's Hazel, likewise Newt!"
Newt beams at the two before turning to face Calder. The boy doesn't say anything still eating his food before his eyes narrow.
"What?"
"Oh, you didn't want to introduce yourself?"
"Does it matter?"
"His name's Calder, from 4," Vortex supplies in between bites.
Calder glares at him, to which Vortex simply shrugs and mouths, 'does it matter?' impishly.
The boy from 4 ducks his head in resignation, sighing again.
What an odd group they must make. 4 kids and Calder, what a completely useless alliance they'd make. Bloodbaths and Calder, featuring Newt. Vortex chuckles at the idea. Where Newt was a surprising discovery. Hazel and Cooper are probably just as useless as he is. Lacking any fighting capabilities, they're just nice.
Niceties won't stop the careers from slaughtering them though.
"So, what do you all plan on showing head Gamemaker Levenezque?" Hazel asks suddenly.
Vortex pauses mid-bite to stare at the sole girl of the table, surprised that anyone could remember such a mouthful of a name.
"Oh… I, I'd rather not say," Cooper explains timidly.
Vortex doesn't see why that's something to be shy about, agreeing with the sentiment wholeheartedly. Some of the people in this very table might be out to get you. Only an idiot would openly discuss their strategy with possible enemies.
"All good. No one's going to hold it agat-agas-against you," Newt stammers.
Cooper nods his head in thanks.
"But I don't mind talking about it! I'm going to show them my fighting style and surf-sir-survival skills," Newt continues unabashedly.
Vortex purses his lips. Did he say, idiot? He meant, open and easy-going guy. Newt's not an idiot, no way. He instinctively turns to look at Calder and sure enough, the older boy's on guard after hearing self-defense. Vortex grimaces, hopefully, he doesn't turn tale, despite what Newt is telling everyone, he's still a kid, and Vortex would much rather have Calder as an ally than Newt if it came down to deciding between one or the other.
"Oh cool. I'm going to show them plant identification, I scored a 95%! Did you know that 85% of plant life can be found in the ocean?" She informs the table at a whirlwind pace.
Vortex blinks stupidly at her, obviously not knowing that snippet of information. By the way, Cooper looks at her, he's probably the same. Newt's excited, and surprising of all, Calder perks up at the fact.
He struggles to place why until he makes the connection. District 4 and the ocean, as synonymous as district 7 is to forests or 6 to morphine addiction.
Did she do that on purpose? Give a little piece of marine facts to coax Calder into liking her? To have him pick her instead.
It's a fleeting moment, and the fact she excitably talks about marine life so brightly makes Vortex dismiss the idea. He is mildly impressed at the fact Calder seems engaged in the conversation for once, talking about all kinds of fish facts. Then again, Calder a softie, he should have expected it at this point.
POV – Mischa Morrigan
2:15PM
"District 1, Mischa Morrigan, you may go," Tullius says.
Mischa stands from the career table and slowly makes her way to the exit. Something they failed to explain to the tributes was a physical check-up just before private sessions. Simple stuff, really, just get their height, weight, basic physical features like hair colour, eye colour and a face portrait. Very simple stuff, but tedious when 24 have to be done individually.
When Mischa asked for the purpose of the photo, the photographer simply explained it'd be the portrait used for The Hunger Games. The one everyone else would see appear in the sky.
Her death portrait.
It made Mischa reasonably unnerved to see how easily the people of the capitol can discuss the death of tributes as if discussing the weather. Although, it likely unnerved her the most due to the silent reminder that there's a chance her face may show up in the sky.
That's good in the end, a bit of fear keeps one alert, and there isn't any room for complacency in the arena.
Mischa exits the cafeteria and walks back into the facility. She finds it eerily quiet when entirely empty. She's the only one on the floor, with the exception of a few sparring trainers. The only sounds she hears come from the gamemaker booth. She spots the head gamemaker along with many others, funnily enough, she stands out with how ordinary she appears.
"I am Mischa Morrigan from District 1," She introduces with a slight bow.
The gamemakers quiet down and give her their undivided attention. She smiles, satisfied with that as she makes her way to the weapons rack.
Any weapon one can think of is here. Her teachings from AICE explain it best, if one can be impressive with a unique or exotic weapon, then there's a chance it appears in the arena. Career favouritism, although she supposes someone from an outlier district could theoretically do the same, assuming they trained with a unique weapon their whole lives as she did.
She finds a training rapier, as she knows she would and quickly heads back into the center.
"May I request a spar, with someone who wields a lance," Mischa asks.
One of the trainers obliges her, grabbing the respective training weapon and stands across from her. Mischa opts for a weapon disadvantage for two reasons. 1, to show her prowess even when the odds are against her, and two, to simulate a battle against Kyra Boldar from 2. The girl's an adept spearwoman, so she wishes to emphasize her own superiority.
That being said, Mischa doesn't intend to reveal all her cards, all of her tricks. She knows that if she performs adequately, and defeats the trainer handsomely, she can secure an 8, maybe even a 9. More than sufficient for her.
She doesn't intend to incorporate her dance background into her fighting style, not yet, that's her trump, her secret advantage she wishes to reveal during the arena. To garner everyone's attention and cement her as the undivided favourite in the games.
Although, some things need to happen along the way before she can think of that. It's not good to grow conceited. She knows that she first needs to focus on the sessions, then the interviews. Baby steps, but at the very least she has a bit of a plan formulating.
"You may begin at any time," the trainer says, lance in his two hands, his form low.
Mischa lifts the rapier before her, having the thin blade point upwards, dividing her face in two. She tucks her left hand behind her back.
"Please, come at me," she says politely.
The expert quickly complies, keeping the lance low before thrusting in an upwards forward motion. It's too strong to safely parry.
Mischa leaps to the right, letting it harmlessly swish by her. She's forced to duck as the trainer quickly brings the lance horizontally, she can feel the breeze caress the top of her head, but she doesn't let it bother her.
The trainer spins the lance and readjusts his hands on it in a southpaw grip. But at that moment, Mischa's already bringing the tip of her blade forward.
The trainer switches his grip again and brings his lance across his body like a pole, swatting the tip away from his chest. Instead of fighting it, Mischa rides the momentum change with a swift spin and slashes low, clipping both of his legs before leaping back from his retaliatory thrust.
"That's your point," He confesses, raising a hand in surrender.
Mischa nods and takes a step back before falling into her starting stance again, the trainer does as well, and the two begin the process from the beginning. They spar for three more rounds; Mischa makes a minor overcommitment that gives the trainer the chance to get her arm. But ultimately, she beats her sparring partner 3-1 before she thanks him for his efforts.
She then heads to the survival skills stations. She notices every gamemaker stare at her, they've gone entirely silent, not even any passing words between each other. She is both grateful, but also anxious by their stares. They saw her stupid blunder and she worries how badly it can affect her score.
She shakes her head, deciding to worry about it after and goes about the process of making a simple fire. After she completes it on her first try, she goes back to the gamemakers and bows politely.
"Thank-you for your time gamemakers," Mischa says.
"Thank-you Miss Morrigan, you are dismissed," Levenezque responds.
Mischa bows again, and quickly makes her way out of the facility. Thankfully, when completing the session, she doesn't need to go back to the cafeteria. Actually, she isn't even allowed to.
By the time she enters the residence building's lobby, she's mentally kicking herself for her mistakes.
Two of them, she quickly reflects. The over-commitment to an obvious feint, now that she thinks about it, and the slow start to her fire, which she knows she can do better on. Thankfully, the fire mistake was minuscule, as she simply was being way too safe about it. She just wanted to make sure she created a fire on the first try. Anything less would be unacceptable for her.
It cost her some time. She could have blown on the kindling a bit more. For the feint, she needs to focus on the hips. Not the weapon, what kind of elementary mistake was that? She chews on her lip as she mentally runs the fight over and over through her head.
All she can hope is that she performed well enough overall. She's not going to be able to get the fight out of her mind until she sees her score, she realizes bitterly.
POV – Remy Cartwright
2:30PM
"District 2, Remy Cartw-"
"Yeah, yeah, I think I know how this plays out," Remy interrupts with a wave of his hand.
He stands from the table and cracks his neck before making his way to the exit.
"Good luck Remy," Emerald says with a thumbs up.
Locust nods towards him, and Remy shakes his head exasperatedly. Why does it feel like he's picked up strays? Can't be worst than what that guy from 4's got going, he concedes looking at the kiddy table plus delinquent ginger.
Kyra doesn't say anything to him, seemingly deep in thought. He waits for her to make eye contact, only to wink at her. Kyra rolls her eyes prompting him to snicker. She's been spacey ever since last night, makes sense, he decides.
Not every day someone proclaims to want to kill at least half the people in the room. But more on that later, he's got a panel of judges to impress.
He slams the doors open and makes his way down the hallway, into the facility. It's kind of refreshing seeing it deserted and empty of tributes, it feels kind of like back in Invictus, where Memnon would manage to get a whole floor just for the two of them. Perks of being a Selected.
"Hey there, Remy Cartwright, I'd like to show you the gauntlet," Remy introduces once he finally stands before the panel of gamemakers.
"Very well, what difficulty would you have it set at?" The head gamemaker asks.
He grins cockily at her, "set it to the max, make it a challenge."
"By all means, head to the station and let me know once you are ready to begin."
He shrugs and makes a stop at the weapon rack. He picks up two ring daggers. and spins them around as he makes his way to the gauntlet station.
To put it simply, the gauntlet is a virtual arena, where holograms rush you in waves. The difficulty settings go from 1-12. Remy's tried it once or twice but found 10 too simple for him. He hasn't tried 12, but he's willing to take a chance. Even if it is hard, it'll finally make his time here entertaining, intimidation tactics get boring very quickly after a few minutes, let alone a day.
He steps into the room and has to momentarily wonder how the gamemakers will watch him. Or hear him for that matter, the gauntlet is found on the opposite side of the booth after all.
He quickly discovers how when he sees a few screens displaying the gamemaker booth. It must be a two-way feed of some kind, as the gamemakers can trace his movements as he paces around the smaller room.
"I'm good to go," he says, holding one knife in a reverse grip and the other in a standard one.
The holograms are in the shape of grey human silhouettes, and they sprint headlong towards him. It would be a bit unnerving if he didn't expect it. But this is his third time in the room, he probably spent the most time here out of every other tribute. They probably didn't find it to be worthwhile.
Their loss, he thinks wickedly, he loves the exhilaration it gives him. Remy grins and lowers his center of gravity. He jabs with his reverse grip, running the knife across the first silhouette's neck.
He spins, slashing the torso of the next before he pivots on his feet and roundhouse kicks the next hologram coming from his flank.
They shatter on impact and dissipate into particles. Remy immediately notices the intensity that comes with level 12 difficulty. He doesn't have a moment's respite. The moment he lands the roundhouse he jumps into the air, rotating to his other leg and kicks forward.
He lands on his left leg before ducking to a fall and rolling away from his virtual opponents. He springs to his feet and tosses his first ring dagger. It connects in the silhouette's chest, shattering it like glass. He catches the dagger before it falls and runs it across two more torsos before throwing his leg backward and connecting with another grey faceless head. He rolls forward and springs straight into a punch.
Remy loses count of how long he stays in there, his actions, his leaps, drops, spins, rolls all meshing into a deadly dance. By the end, he's panting heavily, his black curls stick to his caramel skin, and his tracksuit is drenched straight through. He's barely holding himself up, gripping onto his knees.
At some point, he tossed one of his daggers to give himself some space, but he didn't have the time to go pick it up and had to do the rest of the gauntlet with a sole dagger, kicks, and punches. If Memnon ever discovers just how much hand-to-hand Remy was forced to do, he'd undoubtedly never let it go.
A secret to keep to his grave, he concludes.
"Thank-you Mister Cartwright, that will be all," The head gamemaker says.
Remy stands up straight, to the screaming protests of his legs, lungs, and arms, "was my pleasure," he says smoothly.
Once he's finally out of the observant glances from the gamemakers he allows himself to sag. Goodness, did 12 take the energy out of him. He doubts anyone else can give half the show he did.
He doubts Spartacus could do what he did. He'll show him, show everyone why Remy Cartwright is the unrivaled best.
Anything Spartacus can do, he can do better. He got 11 kills, Remy will get 12. Spartacus betrayed his alliance via an ambush, Remy will do it through a challenge.
He's just that good, it doesn't matter what others think, or try to do. He'll kill them all. Because he can.
Remy steps onto his floor and gives a quick nod to Heron, 2's escort. The crass man is a perfect fit for a crass district 2.
"How'd it go? Ah, stupid question, swimmingly, am I right, Remy?"
Remy rolls his eyes, but grins anyways, "gauntlet at 12, for the whole time,"
"Oh, that is most impressive. A 10 at the minimum, I have no doubts,"
"Neither do I. Get one of those tongueless servants in here, I need some ice for my bath," Remy says, pointing to his room, referring to the personal bathroom inside.
"Of course, I'll send one your way."
Remy nods and enters, his thoughts going back to last year. Oman, the tribute for the 98th games was weak, Remy managed to take a win off him, despite being the apparent favourite, giving them 7-1 scores apiece. If it weren't for Spartacus' asinine teachings, Remy would have gotten the spot.
He knows he could win those games, easily, even with one year less of expereince. But due to the idiot that is his current mentor, he was denied his chance, forced to wait one more year, with a new gamemaker. Anything can happen in that arena. It'll be entirely different than what's usually expected.
And it's all thanks to his dumbass of a mentor. He can't stress enough just how much that man fucked his chances last year, and frankly, Remy's not of the forgiving type. Once he becomes victor, he'll drag that bastard through the mud. He's only relevant because he holds the kill record.
Remy will change that. He'll take away everything that makes Spartacus worthwhile, and have him tossed out like yesterday's trash. Once Remy becomes district 2's new golden boy, he can do whatever the hell he wants.
He's itching to get into the arena, he's nearly salivating at his prospective future.
POV – Harvest Henderson
6:06PM
"District 9, Harvest Henderson," Tullius says tiredly.
"Good luck Harvest," Sela says immediately afterwards.
He turns to her and smiles, nodding his head in thanks before getting up from his chair. The room's considerably less full and quiet with more than half the tributes gone. His thoughts go to his late sister, Gwenith, and wonders just how she handled this.
If he recalls, she scored a 2. Didn't place too well either, as it was during a period of time where the arenas were more deadly than the tributes. She was 13 at the time as well, to his 17. He knows he'll do better as a result, age plays such an important roll in these games. Maybe if he does, his parents won't worry? He shakes his head, who's he kidding? They've probably long since abandoned watching.
Harvest exits the cafeteria and heads down the hallway. Nothing seems out of place until he feels his leg pull at something. He hears what sounds like something snapping and his whole body goes on high alert. He hears it before he sees it and lunges forward, just narrowly missing whatever it was that lands where he was just standing.
He gets up, dusting himself and turns to face the hallway. It opens up into the facility, meaning no doors. A puddle of water is at the center of the entrance. He kneels down and grabs at the razor-thin wire, barely able to see it even when in his hand.
His gaze goes from it to the weird contraption that lines the walls around the entrance, starting from the bottom, and running up alongside the wall for a good 6 feet. At the top, on both sides seems to be uncapped water bottles pointed in a horizontal, yet upwards slant. The bottle has weights wired around it. It looks like the weights actually squished the plastic bottle, explaining where the water came from, and how it managed to pour on him even in that position. The whole contraption looks heavily tapped to the wall. Harvest is actually left speechless. Did Velvet do this? Is this what she showed the gamemakers? It would have had to take the whole 15 minutes, at the very least to set it up.
"Mister Henderson, please come forward," the head gamemaker says, snapping him out of his stupor.
Harvest nods, and quickly makes his way before the gamemakers. They look tired, simply put, some are even in the middle of eating. Not the head gamemaker though, she's intently staring at him, expectantly he realizes.
"I'll be using the bow, plant identification, and the camouflage."
He waits for the head gamemaker to nod and heads towards the range. He picks up a bow and three arrows and heads to in front of one of the targets. He takes a steadying breath and goes through the motions he remembers. A firm grip, but ultimately a relaxed one, breathing is important too. Follow through with your movements. Draw with your back, and let it all uncoil in one, fluent motion.
Harvest releases and watches as the arrow zips by, punching through the side of the dummy's torso. It's a grazing shot, practically harmless. He remains calm and goes through the motions two more times. His aim gets slightly better with each shot. He doesn't miss once.
He can be content with that. He heads over to the plant identification center and goes through the test. This, he finds to be even harder than archery. Still, he scores a solid 77%, a personal best for him. He then quickly gets up from this station and heads over to camouflage.
He's only halfway through his arm when he's told to stop, he looks perplexingly up to the gamemaker.
"That will be all, thank-you, Mister Henderson."
Harvest slowly puts the brush down and swallows thickly. He's being told to stop early, ahead of schedule. He isn't the first, he realizes, recalling the clock said somewhere around 6:05 when in reality he should have been 6:15 for his allocated time slot.
So, at least he isn't the only one to screw up somehow.
But, he's clearly not good enough. Like his sister, he thinks solemnly. She was probably told to stop early too, given her petite form. What else could she do? She wasn't bright, just kind and gentle. A sweet angel, their sweet angel his parents would call her.
Sweetness evidently doesn't have a place in the games. Sweetness didn't stop the reptilian mutt from mauling her with fangs and claws before leaving her remains for the capitol to scoop up, toss in the wretched wooden coffin and sent back home.
He remembers the day the coffin was delivered. He remembers the day the coffin was buried in the graveyard. He remembers the day he stood on a stage with his broken parents and had Opal Barrineau talk about the tributes in her speech.
Not a word mentioned about Gwenith Henderson, she didn't even know her.
Harvest could hardly hope to forget, the horror etched permanently into his memory. Will he forsake his parents, have them stand on the stage again as another victor, a tribute amongst him, goes through the same speech?
Will they too, forget his existence?
"Thank-you for your time," Harvest says woodenly, bowing to the gamemakers.
He's painfully aware at the fact that only then do some even notice him. They look at him quizzically for a moment before going back to their conversations or food.
He clenches his jaw seeing it, his eyes narrowing. He wordlessly heads out of the facility, one arm half-way painted to look uncannily similar to bark.
POV – Adalyn Plumm
7:16PM
Her ally and district partner's currently in there, doing his private session. Adalyn's nervous, nervous of what she might do when she's in there.
The Capitol represents everything she despises. A greedy state that steals the resources from the lesser districts, crippling them to the point of dependency despite the wretched crimes done to them.
She feels like she can relate, having put up with her alcoholic father. He never beat her, not intentionally, but when shitfaced as he can become, he was rougher than even he realized. The bruises faded by now, but she's used to accumulating them. School was her escape, so was her temper.
Now, if she wants any chance of surviving these games, to impress these bastards, she'll have to go without neither. Losing her temper in front of all those gamemakers could be too easy, cathartic even.
But, ultimately suicidal. She's been raised to be the good girl, to keep her head down and do as everyone tells her. She hates it, utterly hates it.
And now she's here in the games, forced to do it all again, just for a chance, a mere chance to impress even more bastards who in turn might or might not sponsor her. After all, it could just very well be more entertaining to watch her die instead.
"District 11, Adalyn Plumm," Tullius drones out.
His voice echoes in the silent, relatively empty room. She stands, letting the chair screech as she pushes it back with more force than intended. She ducks her head at the head trainer's confused stare and quickly exits the cafeteria.
She admittedly doesn't know what she wants to show the gamemakers. All of this time waiting and she has absolutely nothing to show for it. She could try spear work. Although she doesn't have any formal training- or informal for that matter, she did occasionally need to knock fruits down during work.
She'd use a large pole for that, sometimes climbing up a few yards to even reach. That in itself actually leads to a possible idea.
She could show her climbing skills, again something she developed from work, back when she was allowed to go into the forests at least. Before she became unjustly accused, then subsequently blacklisted.
Great, as if she needs another reason for her temper to flare. She claps her cheeks and lets the sting remind her what's at stake. If she snaps, loses her temper, she dies. As simple as that.
She recalls times when gamemakers held a vindictive grudge, and spite killed tributes for some unimaginable reason. How else would you explain a whole fucking cave system suddenly collapsing on one single tribute? Snapping at a gamemaker would definitely fit the bill she reasons.
She stands before the gamemakers and stares impassively. Her eyebrow twitches as whatever nervousness she may have had, dies gruesomely once she notices only a few paying her any attention. They're gassed, well guess what! So is she, she's been sitting in a room for hours, they didn't even let her leave or eat any more food after lunch.
She wants to scream at them but immediately catches herself. That was close, even after all of this mental preparation and just the sight of those lazy gamemakers nearly made her fly right off the handle.
"I will be doing some climbing and spear work," She says.
She doesn't bother waiting for acknowledgment, figuring she'd waste all of her time if she did. Instead, she goes to the mesh nets found by the furthest wall and makes quick work of it. Much easier than trees, she thinks triumphantly. She takes some risky jumps, as she reaches the top.
Getting down is also, considerably easier when compared to trees. She finds it almost liberating, the elation she gets from doing something she's been basically banned from getting the chance to back in 11 is incredibly wonderful. Not even thoughts of the superstitious 11 can agitate her mood. Climbing has always been therapeutic, freeing, and gave her a certain independence. She's the only one responsible for getting herself to the top of a tree, and the bottom. She alone, no outside influence, well, normally at least.
Adalyn is smiling by the time her feet hit the floor and has a small spring to her step as she fetches a lance to use. She goes over to the dummies and starts thrusting at vital spots, heart, neck, head, she can land hits on them easily, and from a safe distance. Her smile falters, before falling altogether as she comes to a saddening realization.
Much easier than fruits, she thinks wryly.
AN: I LOVE ACCIDENTALLY REFRESHING THE PAGE AFTER ALL OF MY EDITS ARE DONE! BECAUSE I JUST LOVE DOING THEM A SECOND TIME.
I even had my author note done. Uh, how was it last time? Right, lots to unpack, uh, my capitol-not-exactly-a-plot rears it's head, maybe we'll see it again in the foreseeable future. Uh, but yes, it does confirm that I'm planning a sequel. I won't be accepting submissions until these games are almost done, and we're at the epilogue phase. But don't worry, I'll definitely give more details about that later. I just don't want to accept tributes now when I'm not even in the games, you know?
Another thing, I wanna give the timeline I use for the Capitol phase of the games, it's not original, I don't think, but it's also entirely made up.
Day 1 - Reapings, (some districts arrive today.)
Day 2 - Parade (the remainder of the districts arrive, parade at night)
Day 3 - First Training Day
Day 4 - Second Training Day
Day 5 - Third Training Day, Private Sessions (half-day, sessions begin at 2pm)
Day 6 - Interview preparations, scores are revealed.
Day 7 - Interviews (done mid-afternoon well into the night)
Day 8 - The Hunger Games begin!
Yeah. 2 chapters left before the games begin! I also mentioned the last chapter that starting now I'd go around asking submitters if they're still reading. They don't have an obligation to. I just want to know who's who on the account it could possibly influence how my games play out.
I also want to thank everyone who has reviewed! Thanks so much, thorne98, Andii99, Paradigm of Writing, Manny Siliezar and PopcornAndFanfiction. Thanks as well to Audmirable, and Wulfekin for the pm! You guys are awesome! Reviewers who have submitted, I won't actually need to pm you, so thanks for that too!
