XI: Private Sessions.

Ferrox Mervaine, 50
Co-Head Gamemaker

This was bound to be interesting.

In the very least, Ferrox has known that from the beginning. That was the sort of shit that happened when you collected a bunch of kids like… well, like this. Even after three days spent observing them he wasn't sure what he was about to see.

Part of it, Ferrox knew, was the foreign feeling that came with sitting here after so long. Too many years, too many things in-between.

Here he was again.

Truth be told, regardless of what he was about to see, Ferrox already had a plan in mind. While the audience used to eat them up and likely still would, the scores almost seemed trivial now. The only way to make it more interesting was to bring an aspect of entertainment that hadn't been seen before, even if it wasn't one everyone was going to enjoy.

When the One girl walked in he could sense the nervousness in her, her footsteps stuttering as she caught sight of the podium in the middle of the room. He strode to the edge of the balcony, lacing his hands over it.

"It won't bite you!" he calls, gesturing to the bag. "If you could pick one out—one only—that would be appreciated, Miss Varsano."

Still, she hesitated, fingers reaching for the velvet bag atop the podium with a deftness he hadn't expected. She was steady, he'd give her that. Though it looked like she wanted to peer inside she resisted, her hand eventually emerging with a white marble nestled in her palm, eyebrows knitted together as she gazed at it.

"Thank-you," he says, taking a seat once again. "You can do whatever else you'd like."

Oksana repeatedly glanced between him, the bag, and the marble, eventually dumping it in her pocket. A souvenir, then. It was of no importance to him.

It was clear immediately that she hadn't stood out during training for a reason; instead of heading for any station the others would have flocked to, she gravitated towards simpler things. Deft hands made for a good medic, unsurprisingly—she could navigate her way easily through a first aid kit, wrapping even her own arms with success on the first try. She knew her way around plants, too. After spending so much time dragging her ally there he wasn't shocked to see her perfect score on the identification quiz.

Those things, when it came down to it, would likely not save her. It appeared Oksana knew that as well—when the timer sounded to announce her minutes were up she looked almost dumbfounded, glancing around before realizing the only way to really head now was the door.

It was difficult to think of kids as fodder now that he had his own, but the thought was still there.

The truth was nasty.

Ferrox choked down a laugh when the door next opened, though Ambrose Clarion spared him no glance until he was next to the podium, setting the guitar case down next to it.

"Where'd you get that?" he asks.

Ambrose considers it for a moment. "Secret."

"Code for my mentor likes breaking rules," Cambria comments, though there's an amused smile on her face. When you're the reason why said rule-breaker is still alive considering you broke them out of an arena you have little room to talk.

He considers bringing up the velvet bag and its contents, but he becomes engrossed in watching him set-up. Ambrose pulls the guitar out, carefully tuning it for a few moments, and retrieves a pick from one of his back pockets. There's no microphone, no stage, but that doesn't seem to perturb him. He just settles into a comfortable position and begins to sing.

And the kid can sing. Even Ferrox has to admit that. In another situation he could lean back and close his eyes, allow himself to listen to it like this was another day at home and he was taking a few minutes to himself.

"So are we breaking his ego, or inflating it?" Sona asks, leaning over to whisper in his ear.

He smirks. Even when the buzzer goes off no one moves to stop him, so Ambrose continues his song until he's all the way through, at least a minute past the designated time.

When he's done, though, Lex claps. That can't help matters. Ambrose says nothing, but he looks satisfied with himself, packing up in silence before he departs.

Ferrox isn't in the mood to break anyone just yet.

He jots down a few notes, listening to the sound of Armina's footsteps as she enters the room. She is stone-faced when their eyes meet, standing in front of the podium and blocking their view from it as if she's already cast the idea of it aside.

Ferrox opens his mouth at the same time she does. "I need people to spar with," she requests, arms crossed over her chest.

"People?" he questions. "Plural?"

"Plural," she confirms, foot tapping against the ground while they call in a few of the trainers. Ferrox can't hear the muted conversation that passes between her and the four that soon arrive, but eventually they all scatter. Each of the trainers picks up a weapon—two with spears, one with a sword, and the last with a long, curved knife, serrated at the edges.

Armina has yet to move, still standing calmly in the middle of the room as they all converge back on her, weapons drawn.

"What the hell is she playing at?" Cyrus asks, puzzled.

It doesn't take long to find out. Within seconds she's acquired the spear from the first of the trainers, tearing it clean from his hand and using it to sweep him to the ground. The second rushes at her back and she flips the woman clean over her shoulder, kicking the sword far across the room when she falls. It's like watching some sort of elaborate dance, her weaving through them, disarming them, burying them all in the ground.

Funny. Ferrox doesn't remember judo expert being written anywhere in this girl's notes.

By all accounts, the speed is phenomenal. All of a sudden Armina is standing in the middle of four groaning bodies, only the first of which has managed his way back to his hands and knees. Her demeanor is nonchalant, hip cocked out to one side, spear swinging from her hand.

"Are those the best ones?" she asks disbelievingly.

Ferrox thought they were. "You're dismissed," he tells her, and she gives him a mocking salute, dropping the spear where she stands and stepping over the last trainer's legs, headed for the door.

She never made a splash during training; much of her days were spent following her partner around, if not Casimira Ruiz, occasionally interacting with a few of the others but ultimately keeping to what she was comfortable with. Ferrox doesn't even remember her picking up a weapon.

A surprise indeed.

The trainers are still picking themselves up and resetting the weapon when Milo enters—he looks disinterested in their ongoings but watches them nonetheless.

"What's with the bag?" he calls up to them.

"If you could pick one out of it, please."

"One what?"

"A marble."

"A marble," Milo says slowly. "Why?"

When no one answers, he strides away to the nearest weapon's rack. The nearest trainer jolts away from him, clearly unwilling for a second round. Milo ignores them in favor of returning to the pedestal, a two-handed axe in his grip. He brings it down against the pedestal with a crack; it splits down the middle and the velvet bag goes flying, marbles tumbling over the floor with lightning fast speed. Milo watches them all go, turning in a wide circle until they stop moving.

It takes him some time to locate it. It's like a blast zone, twenty-three marbles scattered in all directions, but he returns to them with the lone black one in hand, holding it up for inspection.

"This is what you wanted, right?" he asks. "The odd one?"

"Fuckin' Two's," Cambria mutters. Her assessment is right. They really always have things up their sleeves that no one anticipates.

"What does the odd one get me?" Milo continues. Ferrox thought this little game of his would go on longer—he only wanted to see who would play along, but the outcome he got is satisfying enough.

Ferrox smiles. "You can go."

"I—what?" Milo asks wildly. "You can't—"

"Now, Mr. Poliadas."

Milo's face twists into a variety of things. Upset, first, and then anger. They're all lucky that axe is too big to throw; Ferrox feels like he would have gotten it in the face if not. Finally he stalks away, the aftermath of a storm left behind him. The door is tugged so hard after him that the slam echoes around the gymnasium. More than one of the trainer's jumps at the noise, shying away.

Fuckin' Two's, indeed.

Cyrus Kessler, 45
Gamemaker—Head of Engineering

Cyrus has never been outright ignored the way Velcra Leight ignores them all.

In as little woe is me fashion as possible, Cyrus had always been the least noticed of the group. He wasn't flashy or out there—he had his people, and he stuck to them. Unless he spoke up first no one ever paid attention to him, and sometimes even then. He was used to it. Sometimes he liked it. But the downright unnerving way in which she entered, grinning like a shark and with complete disregard and contempt for those around her, made him uneasy.

She doesn't introduce herself or pay any mind to the marbles still scattered about the floor, heading straight for what's left of the refreshment table against the far wall. She takes a small bottle of water with her to the flora station, and what she does there is mostly lost to them with her back blocking it from view.

"Should I be worried about this?" he asks quietly. Sona hums. Lex nods, inching back further into her chair.

Velcra spends nearly the entire time uninterested in their curiosity, finally turning around with not much time left at all. In one hand is the water bottle, now slightly discolored—the other is clutching tight to a vial of darker liquid.

She waggles them at the gawking trainers. "I need a volunteer."

All openly resist until Ferrox nods his head at the one closest, whose bobbing throat is visible even from up on the balcony. Their conversation is muted, but Velcra eventually manages to convince him to take a few large swigs from the bottle, coaxing him the whole way.

"That's not going to end well," Alessia says flatly. She's not an idiot, this one. Considering she's a soldier of sorts and has killed more people than anyone in the room, he's not all that surprised.

Second by second the trainer's face goes redder until it begins to purple, the veins bulging from his neck, fingers clawing at his throat. Velcra takes a step away from him, waggling the vial.

"Now, you see, I could theoretically save his life," she announces. "Should I?"

The trainer collapses to his knees. Velcra smiles. Cyrus has never watched someone die before, not like this. The closest he came was Meritt Trevall, and that was just a lot of blood all over the training mats, self-inflicted gashes from elbow to wrist. A mess, yes, but fixable. No one speaks for too long. Finally, when the man is reduced to a twitching, gasping mess at her feet, Velcra forces his mouth open and the end of the vile inside, spilling the dark liquid into his mouth.

And then she simply leaves.

Within two minutes the man is breathing almost normally again, his face returning to its normal pallor. He has to be helped to his feet by his fellow trainers, but he manages it well enough.

The boy is already making his way in when Lex turns on them all, shocked. "She almost let him die."

"But she didn't," Ferrox answers.

"She—"

"Anyone can make an antidote with the right instruction and ingredients," Alessia interrupts, already so confident and steady in her words. "Not everyone can be confident that it will work. She knew the repercussions if she let him die; instead she proved that she's smart enough to do it and bold enough to walk away without checking to see her own results. She knows what she's doing."

Yes, it's unnerving, but it was bold, and it proved a point. She's as thin as a reed and likely about as strong as one, but the girl's a threat. You have to give her that.

When he looks down once again Mazzen Sylstina is waiting ever so patiently for their conversation to finish, though Lex looks like she would still be talking if they weren't so focused on the scene before them.

"I'm sure I can't do anything as interesting as what she just did," Mazzen says. "Or anything at all, for that matter."

"What are you going to do, then?" Cambria asks.

"Could we talk?"

"About…?"

"You must know that Velcra and I have a… connection, of sorts," Mazzen settles on. "All you want is for us to play the game—well, she won't even entertain mine. She thinks I'm beneath her, that I don't matter. But she'll think otherwise if you help me out."

Well, color Cyrus intrigued. "And how do we do that?"

"I need a favor."

"Go on."

"Piss her off on behalf of me."

The whirring in Cyrus' brain continues, but nothing immediately comes to mind. The answering smirk on Ferrox's face says it all, however. The two of them are so intrinsically connected by this point that Cyrus understands quickly. Ferrox jots something down, another number just below Velcra's first. "I can do that," he says, an amused grin displayed on his face for all to see.

"Well, that's it then, I guess…"

Mazzen trails off, shuffling his feet. "You can go," Ferrox offers, and he turns tail. Velcra might be suspicious at how short his visit was, but she won't find out why, certainly, until later. Even then the answer may not be clear enough to matter.

Cyrus doesn't think so, anyway.

He's still looking down when the Four girl enters, though by the sound of her walk alone he can tell she's entering with a surprising amount of confidence; bold for someone with limited knowledge of what they're really doing. She's not really trained like the others, but she's certainly good at pretending. If Cyrus was standing before her, he's certain he would see a complete lack of fear in her eyes.

Devan scoops up one of the marbles and passes it from hand to hand. "What do you say we start with a bit of an ice-breaker?"

No one responds to her attempt at conversation, though it doesn't seem to deter her rather valiant efforts. "Did you hear about the man whose entire left side was cut off?"

"Is he all right now?" Ferrox asks.

Devan hums. "I mean, I was going to say he's half the man he used to be, but…"

She chuckles. It's oddly infectious—Cyrus doesn't laugh himself, but he finds himself smiling regardless. She's trying, he'll give her that.

She's not the most adept in anything else; no star, but capable enough that what she does know could certainly get her places. Wielding a few knives seems to be as far as she's willing to go with the weapons and she moves quickly, not unlike a twister of some sorts, bouncing about from station to station as if determined to prove her worth in any way she can.

He waits for another joke towards the end, but nothing presents itself. Perhaps Devan is too engrossed in different things. She seems almost flabbergasted when the buzzer goes off, still clutching tight to a knife now that she's returned to the station.

Unsurprisingly, her departing wave is cheerful. Any brief hesitation she felt in those few moments is gone, replaced by boldness once again.

Her partner walks in after her with nearly the same swagger—it's no wonder they're allies, and so close to boot. Varrik's smile is larger, still, almost impossibly so.

"How'd my girl do?" he asks, looking around the room as if to find evidence. "Did she dev-astate you with her skills and many charms?"

"God, it's like they share a brain," Sona mutters under her breath.

Share a brain they might, but it appears that Varrik Varnett, though he seems otherwise, knows what he's doing at least slightly more. His actions are more leisurely as he selects a few spears and places himself in front of the targets. None of them quite hit the bullseyes, though many are close, and almost all of them hit close enough that they would do some damage.

He's fast, too. The fours with their long, lean selves are almost enviable—even if Varrik couldn't hit his target, he might be fast enough to do damage in other ways.

He makes no effort to hide this, either, offering comments on his own hits and misses, talking his way through everything he's doing.

Truth be told, Cyrus wouldn't be surprised if the kid could talk someone to death. Everyone else around him on the balcony looks exhausted in some form by the time he departs.

Varrik is just another character at the end of the day, one of twenty-four. They were all chosen for various reasons—to fit their parts, to round out the cast.

He, along with the others, are doing their jobs quite well.

Cyrus thinks they'll be well-suited to seeing those jobs through until the bitter end.

Sona Scardino-Kessler, 44
Gamemaker—Head of Muttations

Hadn't she said way back when that she was getting too old for this?

Well, now she definitely is.

This ought to have been properly over years ago, the way they intended it to be. Sure, it turned into much bigger of a mess than they wanted, but who's to say that was bad?

Lots of people she knows. But lots of people don't matter.

Only these ones.

Sona has little room left to care about any people other than the ones sitting beside her on the balcony and the ones that have been entering below, including the girl from Five. She doesn't hesitate to get right down to business, sparing only a quick glance their way before she chooses her first station and gets to work. Sona can admire that sort of ethic. Inara has put in a lot of work these past few days, spreading herself out to learn as much as she can. Though she's well-versed at caring for herself, as is obvious, she is not totally blind to the advice of others, including her allies.

There is defiance in her, Sona can tell. Defiance that she knows is still within her, something she should have long since outgrown.

If their positions were reversed Sona likes to think they would be on the same level. Good, but not great. Knowing enough to survive, but not enough to stand-out. She can't help but wonder if the play is intentional—Inara is capable, and certainly daring enough to stand out in her own particular way. Not many people are trying to hide themselves this year.

That in itself is a bold move.

Her partner, little Rex, shares none of those same reservations. He hurries right over, until he's standing so close to the balcony's edge that Sona has to crane her neck over to catch sight of him.

"Can I have a hammer?" he asks.

"A hammer," Cambria replies flatly. "Why?"

"I just like them. They're cool, y'know? And I'm good with them. So can I have one? Not too big, though, I need to be able to swing it."

"Am I the only one that's deeply uncomfortable right now?" Cyrus says under his breath; she can't help but snort. Of all the people, she's unsurprised that he's the one weirded out by such an interaction. He looks suspicious up until the trainer produces a hammer—from where, she has no idea—and hands it off to him.

And then, decidedly, they're all suspicious.

The kid goes to town. No real skill or trajectory, no control behind his movements. Just wild swings, cracking into dummies left right and center until he's knocked them all clean to the floor, and even then he refuses to stop until the stuffing is spilling out of the faces and chest cavities, bringing the blunt end of the hammer down into their non-existent kneecaps.

It is unsettling. Rex looks positively joyful throughout the entirety of his session and makes no move to go for any other area of the gymnasium, though he tried several of them out over the course of training. He only hesitates, finally, when Ferrox dismisses him. Rex's eyes are hesitant when he looks up again, something fearful in their depths.

As if he's done something wrong.

Sona is glad, harsh as it sounds, that he leaves quick enough, arms wrapped tight around himself. Knowing what to expect from the next tribute is a wondrous thing, and Ilaria proves her exactly right.

They all know a thing or two about each tribute's past, but the training Ilaria must have received is leagues above anything any Six should have had the right to. She knows what she's doing, where to put her feet, the correct stance to get in. Perhaps she's not quite as successful as Armina in disarming and avoiding each hit, but she's damn close, and it doesn't mean she wouldn't hit her mark the next time.

What Sona can appreciate about Ilaria is her reservations—she does not brag or ever look to them for their approval. She simply does what she's been taught to do. Sona knows why the audience is captivated by her; a pretty girl will do that to any gullible Capitol audience, but they'll all be begging for her attention tomorrow night after this performance.

Sona also knows that the girl doesn't like the sort of attention she's receiving, even if she fakes it well enough.

Everyone here has faked it once or twice. A few hundred times, really.

What's one more?

Callister doesn't even wait until Ilaria is out of the doors proper, but it's obvious that she wishes him luck as he heads forward. None of the trainers look overjoyed whatsoever by his presence.

You couldn't pay Sona to go down there either, to be fair.

He has one trainer down in seconds, a quick swing to the jaw. Sona sincerely hopes the man is smart enough to stay down, or even unconscious. That would be a kinder fate than whatever Callister would do to him a second time. None of them stand a chance. It's like they're all caught in a spider's web, or moving slow as molasses. Every move Callister makes is calculated well in advance, though he never hesitates or stops to think about it. He even leaves enough time to back-track to the weapons rack, collecting a spear that he wields almost as if he was taught with it.

Sona saw the unfamiliarity in which he held the thing three days ago upon first entering, but there's none of that learning curve to be seen.

He knows how to learn, and quickly. Even if it's not the best moves, or the proper ones, it's the ones that suit him best.

Ha. Isn't that ironic?

Right now Sona is sitting surrounded by people who have always pulled the strangest things to come out of the other side not just alive, but standing tall. Together they've managed their way through things people have no right to survive.

Much like many of these children, she's a survivor. An unlawful one, a branded rebel.

And Sona wouldn't have it any other way.

Lex Morita, 41
Gamemaker—Head of Environmental Design

There she is.

The girl that, inaptly or not, could be considered Lex's worst enemy.

It wasn't that serious, not to her, but Sona and Cyrus had certainly made a game of it. When someone created a game, the others were quick to follow. That was how family worked, odd as theirs was. They stuck together even through the most trivial games.

Alexa—because that was her name, dammit, not Lex—was everything she had longed to be as a child. Tall and strong and seemingly very confident in herself. Maybe too confident, if you asked anyone else, but there was no point voicing that to Alexa. She was competing with no one but herself when she picked up an axe, testing its weight, but it certainly seemed as if there was an audience surrounding her, just waiting for their opportunity to one-up her. Something Alexa would clearly not allow.

As everyone did, though, Lex saw the fatal flaw. She looked over her shoulder too often. She looked at them. Every time she had a success, whether it be for a particularly good throw or lap around the room, she was not internalizing it. Alexa wanted to know that they were paying attention, that they knew she was the best in the room.

In the room, sure. In this field… well, Lex wasn't so sure about that fact.

"Do you think she'd be upset if we low-balled her?" Ferrox asks, a mischievous grin on his face. If she wasn't so used to it by now, it would worry even her.

"Upset is an interesting word choice there," Cyrus says. "I for one think she'll nuke your house before she gets in the tube."

"If she can figure out where it is."

Lex watches as Ferrox scribbles down a number and then leans over to stare at it, quickly writing down the same. So what? It was amusing, there was no refuting that. Maybe someone trying to steal her thunder deserved it, anyway.

She didn't know how much more amusement they would get out of today, just over halfway through now. Alexa's partner was perhaps haughty as well, but would he get as angry? Lex didn't think so. He certainly looked much calmer as he stepped into the room.

Unfortunately, though, the surprises end there. After three days of watching him Lex wasn't surprised to see that he wasn't terribly well-versed in much; it seems as if he spends more time talking than he does getting things done. He can wield a few weapons, but none to any unique degree. He's strong, but nowhere near the strongest.

Worse, still, and much like Alexa, he keeps looking to them almost for approval despite being one of their more lackluster performers. Is it enough to doom him? Certainly not. But she has no doubt that many people could take him on and win despite his size, an almost David and Goliath situation.

The bigger they are, the harder they fall, as they say.

His reaction when he sees his score will be one for the ages, she's sure. Lex only wishes she could be there to see it.

The Eight girl's approach to the situation is louder and with much more showmanship—she knows what she's doing, at least in terms of entertainment. She scales the obstacle course with ease and makes it across faster than any other tribute she's seen as of late, hell, even faster than she was completing it in training. She even adds in a few out of place tumbles and flips in areas where no one else would certainly attempt them, making it all the more graceful when she finally hits the ground and rights herself, smiling.

It's all too clear to them all that Penelope knows exactly where she's going next, hand already extended forward.

"I'm not watching you stick a sword down your throat!" Ferrox calls down to her, upon watching her approach the respective rack. "You're not killing yourself on my watch!"

"Oh, c'mon!" Penelope yells back. "I know what I'm doing!"

Still, despite the adamant refusal, she retains a cheeky smile on her face, easing towards the swords as if threatening it anyway. Finally, after being on the receiving end of one too many harsh glares, she does a neat cartwheel past it and towards the climbing wall.

She's quick, Lex will give her that. Whoever wants to catch her will have to be faster.

Her wildness is easily tamed down by her more sober District partner, who radiates light but doesn't seem to carry nearly as much of it in his eyes. Micah's smile is for their benefit, not his own.

At least, unlike his smaller ally, he seems to have a better idea of what he wants to do, though it's up for debate if he succeeds any more. Really they're two sides of the same coin, perhaps the two people who have the least right to be here.

Lex feels like, if they were born in the same time and place, that they might be the kind of people she got along with. At least before all of this—perhaps she's too bad of a person now to ever comfortably leave this circle.

She knows they all feel the same way deep down inside.

The few things he manages to complete could be easily forgotten about back in the day when they did this every year and watched countless children fail over and over again, but something about it sticks out. So many of the others seem so readily capable, but it's the innocence in a few that makes it all the more real. They're really doing this again. She doubted it six months ago. A part of her still does.

She can't help but wonder what Resani would think of them all now. He certainly had enough to say back then. Her best friend, their team-mate, their fifth.

It's all gone, now. All they have is the past.

Alessia Vogel, 39
Gamemaker—Head of Tribute Management

Alessia has never felt so deeply uncomfortable anywhere else in her life.

When you consider where she's been—camped out in near-blizzard conditions, living in a bunker going toe to toe with senescence, calling home an abandoned warehouse in Six—you'd think she could handle anything. The Capitol was different. Clerical. Pristine. It reminded her of the early days of being raised as a soldier, of having nothing but your name and the ever-looming threat of even that being beat out of you. It had been eerie then. It was still eerie now.

She had agreed to take this job not out of obligation, but because she knew she would be good at it. All her life she had been managing people and keeping track of them; first her siblings, and then her squad. It seemed to her that this should be no different.

Children, however, were much more difficult to control than most people.

Especially the ones that happened to be walking in and out of this room.

Marigold Voss practically flounces in, an odd bounce to her step that doesn't at all match up with the energy of the room. Alessia has to admit that it's somewhat contagious—the girl may be a tad delusional in the grand scheme of things, but she finds herself smiling at least a little as she scoops up her weapon of choice, a sickle, and goes to work.

She's no miracle worker when it comes to a weapon, but she has a good grip and can swing it around without looking terrified of it. It's an ease that comes from familiarity. In some sense of the word, Nine kids can be no different than the ones from Two.

Alessia would know.

Her strength is minimal, but Marigold can at least hold her own against a gaggle of stationary dummies, not quite managing to cut through limbs or appendages but causing enough damage that she could win a fight if she got lucky enough. When she finally disposes of the sickle it's with little time left, but she hurries quickly to the obstacle course and manages her way across it without any impending disaster, a clear by-product of her ally from Eight. It's not nearly as impressive, but it's something.

Something can be worth a lot.

When her partner walks in, slower but albeit still with some energy that he has no right to, he smiles at the sight of the sickle abandoned on the table. He stops in the center of the room and turns in a wide flourish, taking in all of the stations as if he's not sure exactly where to start.

"You can go ahead," Ferrox announces, clearly trying to urge him on.

"I know, I know. But where to start?"

"Anywhere you want."

"Did you know that a lot of people in school still call me Ramen because I once mumbled my name in class three years ago. Funny, right?"

Alessia isn't sure how many of them actually think it amusing, but she admittedly smiles. Ren shrugs, perhaps regarding their perplexed expressions, and turns again, towards the fire-making station that's hardly been touched and the equally clean camouflage station.

It looks like he's just having fun, smiling when he succeeds and furrowing his brow until something is just right, even if it's not perfect in the eyes of anyone else. As long as Ren is happy with what he's doing, it appears that's all that matters.

He has paint on his arms when he stands, a bit of soot on his fingers from rearranging charred sticks into a little formation, and manages to run all the way back to them before the clock runs out. Alessia doesn't know what to expect when he stops and shields his eyes to look up at them, as if that's necessary, and then offers a cheeky wave. Alessia lets herself wave back, and his resounding smile is all the more worth it.

"Thanks for your time!" he calls up to them. Ren darts back halfway across the room just before he leaves, neatly deposits Marigold's sickle back in its proper spot, and is off just as quickly.

Alessia's heart aches for him in a way it hasn't yet today. Perhaps she was just repressing it until now.

Years and years of doing it day in, day out, tend to have that effect.

Watching Lisse arrive is like witnessing a break-off of Marigold—equally as upbeat and ready, but with slightly less control, more wild in each action she chooses to take. Alessia doesn't think her size helps much either, though she knows size doesn't always have to matter so much in the grand scheme of things.

It's the control that worries her. Alessia tries to look at it like a true second-in-command would, and Lisse's inability to stay for too long at any one place could very well just be her downfall. She pulls back no more than three or four arrows before she's off to the next station, uncaring for where on the target they hit, if at all. She shoots her shot at some knife-work, which won't get her very far, and can't even settle long to work properly on knots or fire-making.

It appears that she took in a lot these past few days, but nothing to any massive degree. She spread herself thin—or perhaps she just spent too much time bonding with her allies.

At least bonding, Alessia knows, may do some things to save her.

Unfortunately for Lisse, she was more intrigued to see which direction Hosea went in. She's almost certain he got a flask from somewhere yesterday, but Alessia was no snitch. If he needed a little bit to get through this rather tragic situation, she wouldn't blame him. Besides, unless he's just very good at hiding it, there's no sign of that today. He appears just as daring as his partner but he knows when to hold himself back, taking a few careful, experimental swings while he wants for a trainer to step forward.

He's no expert in the art of weaponry, but Hosea can certainly hold his own. If given even a few more days his skill might just be worrying. It takes a while, but when the trainer finally disarms him Hosea takes it in stride, immediately backing up to retrieve the weapon before he takes his next stance.

At best it's middle of the pack, but that may just be a good thing for someone like him. To lessen himself, even if it's the truth, is to take away everyone else's worried gaze.

No one will go for him if there are bigger, more worrying targets.

Alessia truly has spent too much time as a soldier, thinking like one and acting like one. At the heart of it, these are just children in way too over their heads. Skills or not, she knows that only a few of them really stand a chance.

And only one will end up winning.

Soldier or not, at least Alessia was somehow more fortunate than that.

Cambria Mervaine, 51
Co-Head Gamemaker

Being in this chair again was almost worryingly comfortable.

They knew damn well what they were getting into coming back here, risking so much for one last try. Here Cambria was, thinking her supposed last try was already good enough.

Apparently nine survivors wasn't what people wanted anymore.

For her part she's done her best to remain attentive—this day has always been droll at best, a long series of even longer minutes that made their best effort at dragging your eyelids down. Thankfully this isn't a normal year; these twenty-four are continuously surprising, carrying not just an ace around in their sleeves but rather the whole deck.

Or at least some of them did.

Casimira Ruiz walked in with all the conviction of a Career who had glanced at a sword hanging on a wall before they had begun to properly walk, flashing a bright smile and a well-mannered wave at those watching from the balcony above her. It was a promising first look if only Cambria and those around her didn't know better.

The image—composed, almost regal, ended there.

The girl had some idea of what she was doing but it was with none of the grace that some of the others had possessed. She was thinking much too hard; even from a distance; that much was obvious. Her quest to look undeniably queenly would have worked better if her fingers weren't occasionally clumsy, the positioning of her legs and body all wrong for how she approached the dummy with a spear far too large for her form.

Cambria almost felt a twinge. What was it? Regret? Undoubtedly this girl's delusions had been caused in part by them. Casimira had been left in the wilds of Eleven to train herself, to learn the wrong things or nothing at all, and she wasn't fooling anyone. Not her allies, and certainly not the Gamemakers.

Worse, still, was the pleased smile on her face when she finished, as if satisfied with what she had accomplished. As if she was delusional enough to believe it was really good. Casimira completed this all with a half-bow, sweeping her arms about as if ensuring the image would never leave their minds.

That was one phrasing for what her act had done.

"Well, she could kick my ass," Lex comments quietly, nails tapping at the arm of her chair. The door slammed behind Casimira as she left.

"Anyone could kick your ass," Sona threw back, and she relished in the quiet chortles that spread about the balcony from everyone but Alessia, who clearly was content in watching on in amusement. It was easier for her when she wasn't so deeply involved in them. There was nothing complicated about it—Lex was that of a sprite, small and dainty, unassuming. A stiff bout of wind could beat in her in a fight.

When you added up who Casimira could beat in a one-on-one fight, her chances looked slim at best.

Her partner, however, was an entirely different story. Hale didn't seem to possess any crowd-pleasing abilities like Casimira did—he was straight to the point, no nonsense to his very core. Even the glance he threw their way did not last very long. More than anything it was like he was taking stock of them, recognizing where they were so that he could move on from it.

Based on his background it was no surprise that he had the strength to back up his every move but it was different seeing it in an untrained manner, brute force on an eighteen year old that had acquired it simply to get by in life.

With a few practiced swings he could knock things clean over and sever parts of dummies off with the blade of an axe. Even when he missed he was quick to pick back up and continue as if it had never happened. Finally, someone who wasn't necessarily worried about their failures, choosing only to focus on the next step.

It showed he could fail, and likely would, but that he had drive. Not everyone possessed such a thing at such a fragile age.

Though he showed adamant refusal to move onto anything else, it was a good enough display. Hale even had the good fortune to set the axe back on its proper pedestal unlike the Two boy, who had simply thrown his across the room upon being dismissed. Maybe Eleven's just had more courtesy.

Hale was not breathing hard when he finally stopped; there was hardly the sheen of sweat on his brow.

It was not an easy thing to predict if strength alone could save someone, but it was a good start.

The jarring juxtaposition from him to the Twelve girl is almost laughable, but the same signs of strength are visible in her body if only you look hard enough. Given a few more years she would be tall and built like an ox, not someone to be trifled with. Even now she had a steel-hard gleam to her eyes, fists clenched tight by her sides.

You could laugh, too, at the idea of a twelve year old who hadn't yet hit her growth spurt attacking anyone with her fists, but Cambria certainly wouldn't have wanted to face her. Not only was she strong, not just for her age, but she was fast. The trainer that stepped forward to spar with her after she had taken care of a few dummies looked perplexed, glancing up at them.

"You can hit her if she hits you," Cambria tells him. "Fair is fair."

"If he's fast enough," Licia says, loud enough that the whole room hears. She's not a breakable thing, this one. Much like Hale, if someone was to land a blow on her, she would likely get right back up and keep swinging.

The spirit is admirable, if nothing else.

It turns out, too, that the trainer is hardly fast enough. They've gotten rusty with so many years off, and Licia's size is clearly throwing them off. She darts away and out of reach; each and every blow only glances off of her, if it connects at all. The girl hardly stumbles.

"Where'd you learn that?" Sona asks, mid-swing. Licia takes a step back, clearly amused when the trainer holds his hands up in mock defeat.

They all know. The files for these kids have been pored over like nothing else before.

Licia's fists clench again. "My Dad."

But will teachings from a father be enough when the field surrounding her is just as good? They're not like the trainers; they won't hesitate in hitting her, if she starts it. They won't hesitate in killing her either. Someone's age isn't like to make anyone falter this time around, especially when said twelve year old isn't the innocent, angel-like being everyone has come to know and expect.

Even if Licia knows this, her chin is firm and high when she turns around to go.

Her partner, however, is a different story.

He exudes a type of confidence that's inherently false, one that he has to constantly work on maintaining. Oriol, when compared to his District partner, looks a shade lesser. He knows how to carry himself, how to look up at them with a deep sense of resolve in his eyes. Mostly, she realizes, he just looks relieved that they're still paying attention to him.

In the early days Cambria's not sure she would be, but there's no telling who could have a trick up their sleeve in this batch.

He moves through a few of the easier stations, some flora identification and survival-based skills. It takes him a bit of trial and error, but he gets a small fire going and looks far too proud of himself for the success. At least he's working, though, she'll give him that.

The kid can hit a target, too, at least if you give him a few decent tries. Cambria doesn't know what use a slingshot will be against some of these people, and they certainly won't be standing still, but it's better than being utterly defenseless.

Deep down she wishes she could teach some of these kids a thing or two.

He's still going when Ferrox finally interrupts him, having missed just about as many targets as he hits. Oriol doesn't seem pleased by his successes, marred as they are by his failures. Still, he forces his chin up and straightens his back until his spine is akin to a ruler, a clear sign that he's at least making a valiant attempt at appearing more than he really is.

Oriol may be able to lie to everyone else, but them? Not so much.

"Well, that was fun," Alessia comments. The doors finally slam shut behind Oriol. "Let's never do this again, hm?"

Anybody else would have been intimidated out of this place by now, but not her. On the flip side, it's more like she's trying to chase them out. What Alessia doesn't know, or perhaps what she's refusing to believe, is that they all want another Games after this about as much as they want the world to end.

Which is, to say, not at all.

This needs to be their finale—their real one. Cambria knows exactly what it needs to look like.

She's arranged a shadow of one before.

Now it's time for the real deal.

Scores can be found on the blog.

FYI, I'm not expecting a full, in-depth review or explanation on every single child/private session because that's asinine, first of all, and also wildly time-consuming. Tell me about your faves/stand-outs, if you're so inclined, but don't beat yourself up otherwise.

I hope everyone had a happy holidays, whatever you celebrated, even in this stupid-ass year.

Interviews next week! Sort of.

Until next time.