GOD THIS TOOK SO LONG TO DO. SHOUT OUT TO OFFICIAL BENGY AND MUKKOU FOR ENCOURAGING ME WITH THIS

But hey here we get some more insights to sabotages and find out what's going on with some characters! Lemme know what you guys think, and as usual I'll leave the QQ at the end!

27 - Strut Your Stuff

Malvolia yawns and stretches her arms high above her head. It's going to be a long day today, but at least she only has to do this once. It's the one thing she dislikes about being Head Gamemaker—having to sit through every individual kid and judge them based on ten minutes of actions. She used to be pretty generous with scoring, hoping to give them something to cling to, but now it's just too difficult.

Why smile and tell a kid who royally messed up a simple snare that he did a good job? Why hold back the cringe when a girl who wants to show off her knife throwing skills misses almost every target by a mile? Sometimes the lies are too difficult to keep up with, and it's easier to be tactful about it. High scores to the kids every Gamemaker agrees needs to be targeted, low scores to the truly unremarkable children. Everything in between is compared by personal scorings and then decided through a mean.

Honestly, the mathematics is probably the easiest part in this section of pre-Games prep.

She sips at her pink pina colada with a blank stare towards the training room. Other Gamemakers scramble to find their own seats and pile their plates with snacks, only two others joining Malvolia in drinking some alcohol. Usually it'd be troublesome to get even the smallest bit of alcohol into your system for something like this, but Malvolia always writes it off as a part of her judging process. Celestia always said she was a blunt, merciless drunk, so why not use it to judge children who will die by the end of the week?

The seat beside her is filled, Darios Aricunai glancing warily at his boss. Malvolia continues to sip her drink.

"I saw the names on the tribute list," Darios starts. Malvolia hums. "I didn't… I hadn't realised my own son…"

"Half of us were at risk of losing our children to the Games this year," Malvolia states. "Two of mine were on the line as well."

The man nods, his lip quivering as he takes in a deep breath.

"Hang in there, Aricunai." Malvolia slides a chocolate from her plate to his. "It's just for today."

By the time everyone has settled, the first tribute is being called in. Malvolia takes a long chug of the pina colada as the name of the first tribute rings out through the speakers above.

"Valentina Teagan, sixteen; representing District One."

The girl in question walks into the room, giving the Gamemakers a quick bow as she introduces herself and thanks them for her time. Malvolia takes in her appearance as best she can, committing it to memory so she can differentiate her from the other girls who will present themselves today. A bit on the smaller side, probably what most will call petitie; she's probably the only person Malvolia's met that would fit the term "mousy" when looking at her appearance, as well. Mousy blonde hair, mousy face. A pretty girl, overall.

Valentina makes her way over to the archery station with a determined skip in her step. Malvolia will admit that she's curious to see what the girl will accomplish. As far as she knows most Capitol children don't learn how to use weapons in their lifetimes, with the few who do being from Peacekeeper families. Valentina picks a crossbow off the wall, loading the first bolt with a loud, disgruntled groan, and she begins her presentation.

Of the five bolts she loads and fires, two land in the bullseye. The remaining three land within the outer gold rings, just barely missing the perfect score that could've given Valentina an edge against the others.

"Thank you, Miss Teagan," Malvolia says into her microphone. Valentina bows again, thanking the Gamemakers for their time, and walks out the way she came.

"She's certainly set a standard for the others," Darios mutters to Malvolia. She nods in agreement, scribbling her own score on her paper and telling everyone to finish up before the next one comes in. All it takes is a good five minutes, and then the private sessions continue.

"Altan Knight, eighteen; District One."

Altan is one of the more noteworthy tributes so far. He's got the majority of C-Districts on his side, and he's made his presence known to the public since day one thanks to his aggressive method of volunteering. Despite being a whole two years older than Valentina, Altan stands around the same height. His appearance betrays his attitude, the admittedly adorable parts of his face and stature expected of someone years younger than himself. Malvolia wonders if all the people joining his side are only there because of his appearance, seeing as he's a little less threatening than Cetronia Livius has proven to be.

"I request a trainer to show off my talent," Altan announces. One of the Gamemakers behind Malvolia picks up a microphone, ordering one of the trainers to take a sword and join Altan's side.

Altan is a lot more of a scrapper than Malvolia expected. The moment the mock fight starts he's charging at the trainer and taking advantage of openings presented before him. Altan's small stature plays into his advantage with avoiding blows and striking more vulnerable areas, and it isn't long before Altan manages to end the fight. The sword is flung out of the trainer's hand, skidding a few feet away from him as Altan raises the sword to his throat and says, "Yield."

Some of the Gamemakers actually applaud him. It's nothing overtly remarkable in Malvolia's eyes, but from a logical standpoint he's done rather well. Well enough to establish that he's more than just a cute face, at least.

"Thank you, Mr. Knight. You may leave."

As soon as he's out the door, a Gamemaker to her other side says, "Lola's going to talk him up like the sun shines out of his ass."

Malvolia snorts a laugh and downs the rest of her pina colada. She sets it on the table and clicks her fingers in the air. "Bring me a purple one this time," she yells to the Avoxes at the back of the room.

"Cetronia Livius, seventeen; District Two."

She scowls. That was quicker than Altan's delay. She doesn't want to sit through any of the performances without a drink, damn it.

Cetronia is as stunning and statuesque as ever. Ever since she was announced to the Capitol as Two's volunteer, she's been the name on everyone's lips. Cetronia will win; Cetronia is gorgeous; Cetronia is what every career should be. Malvolia will admit that at first she never saw what everyone else did in her—the shaved head and intimidating height put her off for a while. But now she's seen Cetronia in the Parade, emulating the pride and grace of the greater victors in history. She's more than career material. Cetronia is victor material.

And never has that been made more clear than now, when she engages in hand-to-hand combat with her trainer. The poor man is overpowered and defeated within the minute, leaving Cetronia to request more trainers to fight against. To say the large scuffle that breaks out isn't entertaining would be a lie. Malvolia's never seen such a way of showing off strength before, nor has she seen so many trainers bested by a mere teenager.

It's both terrifying and magnificent. Even Malvolia is clapping once Cetronia's time is up.

The purple pina colada is set beside her wordlessly, and she takes an experimental sip of it. As Cetronia leaves the room and time is given to the Gamemakers to score her, silence settles over them.

Darios coughs into his hand. He raises it above his head and sighs, "Scotch on the rocks."

The dark-gold liquid is on his table within minutes.

"Wystan Warwick, fourteen; representing District Two."

The tribute Malvolia affectionately compares to a Christmas tree. The red and green that makes up his appearance is amusing at best, the two scars on his neck giving off the illusion of someone who's experienced with battle. He's even smaller than Altan and Valentina; Malvolia can't help the small snicker she lets out when she realises this.

Like the careers before him, Wystan requests a trainer to fight with. The stance he takes with his sword is refined and calm, his posture loose and his expression a blank slate. Malvolia's brows rise with each successful parry and strike he lands, with the way Wystan conducts himself in the duel and how well he manages to keep his vulnerabilities hidden from the trainer. Much like Valentina, he's doing a lot better than Malvolia expected.

Wystan nods courteously to the Gamemakers before he leaves. Considering how well Districts One and Two have done, Malvolia gets the feeling that the rest are going to be quite the bore in comparison.

"Daphne Petharaph, fourteen; District Three."

The first thing Daphne does when she comes in is walk up to one of the trainers and whisper into their ear. Malvolia squints at the action, curious as to why she'd need to hide what she's doing, and announces into her microphone, "Did you need something, Miss Petharaph?"

Daphne squeaks loudly, her foot jerking out to her left. "I—I just wanted to get a few things," she stammers. "For my p—presentation."

"And they are?" She signals for the trainer next to Daphne to get ready.

Daphne looks left and right almost nervously. "Uh… May I please have some diethyl phthalate? And hydrogen peroxide and—" She squeaks. "S—Sodium acetate? And TCPO?"

"Anything else?"

She chews her lip before nodding once. "And some rubrene, ma'am."

Malvolia has a feeling she knows what Daphne is going to make, but signals for the ingredients to be fetched anyway. There's no harm in seeing how well the girl makes what she's planning to show off—after all, mixing chemicals without them blowing up in your face tends to be a lot more difficult than people think. The chemicals are all delivered in jars, and a larger, empty mason jar is also brought out to mix them in. Daphne wastes no time getting to work, mixing everything together except for the hydrogen peroxide with a shake of the lidded jar.

Once she pours in the peroxide and gives it a hefty shake, the mason jar emits a very strong, very bright yellow glow that illuminates Daphne's face. Even with the lights on it glows so obviously. As though to help show off her accomplishment, a Gamemaker behind Malvolia switches off the lights in the training room. The glow is even brighter than Malvolia expected.

"Thank you, Miss Petharaph," Malvolia says. Daphne is escorted out quickly, her arms flicking out every so often as she mutters how relieved she is that it's over. Malvolia tries not to call out to her, to remind her that this isn't even the worst of it, but refrains and sips at her pina colada some more.

"A fun skill," a Gamemaker behind her remarks, "but she won't have access to all of that so easily in the arena."

Indeed.

"Nikostratos Farrington, eighteen; representing District Three."

Malvolia's ready for him when he swaggers in, clicking her pen open and closed.

"You're the one who was responsible for Finnegan Styx's broken leg, correct?" she says slowly. Nikostratos nods from his spot in the training centre. Judging from where he's hovering right now, Malvolia can guess he'll make a show of his cognitive abilities rather than his physical ones.

"I am."

"You have two options, Nikostratos—"

"It was my sabotage, Head Gamemaker." He waves a hand at her. It's a cocky, dismissive action. "I was uncertain of whether or not the trainers were aware of the condition, so I decided to wait until I saw a Gamemaker next to report it. Is that all?"

Malvolia clicks her pen open a final time. "Proceed."

Nikostratos is a tall young man. Like many his age he has his own tattoos, and his hair has long since been changed from its natural hue. Malvolia can't help noticing the difference in eye colour compared to his Parade footage—contacts, she wonders? Even if he doesn't get to wear them in the arena, he'll still probably earn many fans thanks to his looks alone.

As expected, he heads for the memory stations and proceeds to silently complete as many questions as he can. There's absolute silence in both rooms, the Gamemakers watching with bored expressions and munching on their food idly. Nikostratos doesn't bother to give them much attention, expression unreadable even as he finishes stages and moves onto harder, longer ones.

His time is up before Malvolia knows it. She sends him off, noting the curt way he bows before he makes his way out, and soon it's a matter of arguing over how well his score could be. This always happens with tributes who use memory stations. Not only is speed important, but also how much they answer correctly. It's hard to score for one without considering the other.

"Adrianne Evans, seventeen; District Four."

Compared to the Cetronia, Adrianne is plain. Cute, maybe—much like Finnick Odair had been as a child—but not the image of a career most look for. Regardless, she still looks every part a child from Four: Toned, tanned skin, accompanied by blueish-green eyes that remind Malvolia of the mixture between water and glacial flour. More attentive fans of the Hunger Games will take notice of those eyes rather than the silky, dark-brown hair Adrianne keeps in a ponytail, though Malvolia wonders if the girl will be overshadowed even in that aspect by Cetronia.

Unlike most from Four, Adrianne doesn't show off her swimming abilities or her capability with a spear. The girl simply walks in, already dressed in a swimming uniform, and drops herself neatly into the swimming pool. Gamemakers—Malvolia included—lean forward in their chairs to figure out what is happening. Adrianne just sinks to the bottom, making zero movements while the seconds tick by.

Darius is quick to bark an order once everyone considers the grim possibility that Adrianne is drowning herself. He snatches up his microphone and yells, "Get her out, now!"

The trainer that dives in stays under for a few seconds, hovering near Adrianne's form. It's hard to see her move much, one of her hands maybe forming a sign to the trainer. After a minute the trainer surfaces. He pushes his hair out of his face and stares up at the Gamemakers with wide eyes.

"She's not drowning." It sounds like he can't believe himself when he says this. As he hovers there, Adrianne continues to remain under the water. "I think she's showing how long she can stay underwater."

"Keep an eye on her," Darius orders. The trainer nods and dives back under, this time remaining by Adrianne's side for as long as he can.

She surfaces once. The first thing she does is flick her ponytail out of her face and gasp, "How much time to I have left?"

To everyone's astonishment, she still has half of her session left to go. Malvolia has to chug the rest of her pina colada to get over the stress of that demonstration. Every since her first year, suicide attempts have been a big concern for her. She wonders if Celestia will agree to Lola's mental health assessments after this. It'd definitely help everyone keep their peace of mind.

Adrianne spends the rest of her session doing laps of the pool, freestyling back and forth until the timer goes off. She bounces out of the room with a smile while the trainers and Gamemakers contemplate the minor scare they'd been given.

Things are somewhat tense after Adrianne leaves. All the panic over the possibility of her drowning, only to find out it was a simple demonstration, has left them exhausted already. Malvolia chucks the rest of her current drink, rattled, and demands a water replace it once she sets the glass back down. The same Avox brings her a mineral water—apparently they knew her preference for it beforehand—and Malvolia contents herself with simply sipping at it for now. She'll probably throw up if all the stress and alcohol mix with the large gulps of water, she tells herself.

"Simoleon Serif, seventeen; representing District Four."

What proceeds from Simoleon's introduction is… Well, "a mess" seems a bit generous for the display. The moment Simoleon enters is the moment the breakdown starts. Fingers card through brown and turquoise hair and dark brown eyes dart to and fro. Malvolia watches patiently as they look to each station, their anxiety becoming apparent, before finally they simply sink to the floor and curl in on themselves.

Darios asks a trainer to check on them, and soon enough the medical staff is being sent into the room. Good grief, Malvolia thinks as the hyperventilating, crying teen is escorted out of the room without so much as a piece of work to show for their talents.

"Well…" Darios sinks into his chair and downs the rest of his drink.

"One every year," Malvolia sighs. "Try not to pity-score them, by the way," she adds over her shoulder to the other Gamemakers.

Next up is someone Malvolia's been waiting to hear a report from, though most times outside of schedule tribute assessments have been too suspicious to approach her. She sets aside her clipboard, learns forward in her seat, and watches the door for the next tribute.

"Quatra X, fourteen; representing District Five."

The young spy takes her place in the centre of the room, hands behind her back and expression blank at she regards the Gamemakers. Malvolia knows she won't be presenting anything today—if anything, she'll simply be given a random score based on how well she's gathered information so far.

"Go on, Miss X," Malvolia says into her microphone. Quatra nods and sucks in a deep breath.

"So far it seems that no one with direct rebellious intent is in the Games," she reports. "Octavia Faye hasn't made any wrong moves, nor has there been any talk of anti-Capitol stances. I do recommend keeping an eye open on the District Ten pair, if only because they're dangerous in completely opposite ways."

"Noted."

"Oh, and Ms. Nero? I'd like to register my sabotage with you before I finish."

Malvolia raises her brows.

"Regardless of what she presents, I would like to sabotage Octavia's score to be a twelve and make her a target. She's made enemies, and they'll no doubt go after her in the bloodbath once they see the score."

She nods. Everyone begins to write on their clipboards once Malvolia signals to them. It's obvious they're scoring Octavia now before they forget. "Thank you, Miss X."

Quatra leaves the room soon after, and it's agreed by everyone else that an average score will suit her best. She's done her job, and it's clear that she'd used her sabotage in favour of the Capitol's intentions. The X family gave them a good child to work with.

"Tooru Ikeda, fourteen; District Five."

Compared to Quatra's simple report, Tooru at least puts some movement into his presentation. He greets the Gamemakers with a nervous smile, and Malvolia can't help noticing the sweetness to his gaze. It'll die quickly during the bloodbath, she thinks as he moves over to the swords on the far side of the room. The sweet ones always break the quickest.

Tooru picks up one of the swords—it looks almost heavy in his slender hands—and staggers over to the dummies. Last time he'd used the station, Malvolia realises, he'd passed out due to stress. One of the other Gamemakers realises this as well, immediately asking those towards the front, "Is it wise to let him do this?"

"Unless he tries to hurt himself," Malvolia recites, "we let him do as he pleases."

It simply turns out that "doing as he pleases" results in a pretty bad reaction from Tooru. The doctor had been right not to let him use the dummies or even the combat stations for the rest of his training. The moment Tooru strikes the dummy, he lets out a loud dry heave that leaves Malvolia preparing for a cleanup before District Six can even have their turn. But he perseveres, striking it a second time before he drops the sword and clamps a hand over his mouth.

When Tooru is escorted out—not dismissed, Malvolia notes with a glance to the time—the question on everyone's lips is what to do about the tributes' mental health. They've only just made it to the halfway point, but the psychological effects of mere training is starting to prove a concern.

Malvolia calls Lola, wasting no time bringing up the issue once the younger woman picks up. "Did you still have that monitoring plan you wanted to show Celestia?"

"My plan? Yeah, but why?"

"I think we're beyond being in denial over how badly this is affecting tribute performance," Malvolia sighs. She sips at her mineral water through her straw. "Half of these kids probably need to go on a suicide watch before the Games start."

"Ah. We'll see how this one goes, but I'll keep them ready to send. You'd need to back me up with it, too."

"Can do, Miss Amos," Malvolia says. She gives a small thumbs-up to her team, who let out collective sighs of relief. "I'll send you the scores later today."

"Godspeed," she jokes.

And with that, the halfway mark approaches.

"Morganite Gardierre, fourteen; representing District Six."

She's a small, pretty girl. Unlike Valentina there isn't much to her in the way of a figure, but Morganite more than makes up for it with her striking pastel pink hair and confident stance. She hasn't stood out much these past few days—all the rage has been with the careers and the sabotages made so far—but Malvolia has a feeling the girl will prove capable on her own.

And she does. Morganite wastes no time showing off her ability to climb the ropes suspended from the ceiling, nor does she leave the Gamemakers much time to keep a proper eye on her before she vanishes into one of the stations. She's a slippery one, Malvolia will give her that. Morganite goes so far as to stay hidden during the rest of her session, climbing down on the opposite end of the room once the small buzzer goes off.

It's impressive. She's sure to make her alliance proud with the score she'll get.

"Finnegan Styx, seventeen; District Six."

When Finnegan hobbles in, still somewhat under the effects of his medication, all Malvolia can feel is pity. Ever since this morning he'd been in surgery, his leg being patched up as best as the staff could manage on the time limit. Any normal circumstances would have Finnegan healed and ready to run again in under a week. With only a day until they launch—and less than a few hours following his surgery to rest—he's essentially a sitting duck.

He slurs a greeting and, with his crutches loosely under either arm, moves for the archery station. He hadn't shown any talent with the station during the last two days of training—if anything, Finnegan's greatest strength lies in his mobility.

Mobility Nikostratos took from him.

She keeps her face blank as she watches him weakly cling to the crossbow Valentina left behind. Finnegan struggles to load his first bolt, losing his grip so badly that he cuts his finger on the device and drops it with a start. This is how he'll been graded, she thinks with a sigh. He probably won't be scored on effort alone. If he can't get a single bolt on the target, even if it's just the outermost ring, Finnegan will fare as poorly as Simoleon.

But, she notes with a smile, he keeps going. Even as he screams through his teeth while he bends down to pick up the crossbow, Finnegan keeps going. That's all she can ask for from him.

He winds up firing only one bolt, but it miraculously lands halfway between the inner and outer rings. He's in tears—messy, hideous tears—as he's helped out the room.

"Phyllis Hamilton, eighteen; District Seven."

Looking every part the girl from Seven, Phyllis storms into the room and immediately sets to work looking over the trainers. She doesn't look at the Gamemakers once, instead pointing to the burliest trainer available and shouting, "You!"

What follows is honestly hilarious. Here's Phyllis Hamilton in all of her five-three glory, hoisting a man twice her height and thrice her width over her shoulders with a loud, animalistic grunt, while everyone else gawks and snickers around her. She starts to run, pacing her breathing—and Malvolia blurts out a loud guffaw. Phyllis spares her one glance in all the time she has allotted, and then the cherry on top for her performance arrives.

Phyllis flings the trainer a full three feet in front of her. Malvolia's basically writhing on the floor, laughter bubbling uncontrollably as tears leak from her eyes. She hasn't had this much fun watching a tribute since the Ninetieth Games! Phyllis certainly earned whatever score she gets today.

"Cyber Tronovsky, twelve; representing District Seven."

Quite possibly the smallest twelve-year-old she's ever seen comes into the room. She's been made perfectly aware of Cyber's circumstances up till now—it's all rather tragic, being trapped in a body that cannot feel after suffering the betrayal he had—but the question everyone has is whether or not the artificial body will give him an edge. He'd certainly be harder to hack apart than others, heavier to tackle as well. Add in his observational skills and he may just be a solid contender this year.

Like Nikostratos, he heads for the memory station and begins to wordlessly start a memory game. Cyber does fairly well at the beginning, matching Nikostratos's speed and precision easily, but the halfway mark shows to be his downfall.

One section of the memory game had something new added for today's training session, and he notices after looking for another one to show his talent with. Cyber blinks once at the topic, taps it, and meticulously absorbs all the knowledge he can from each slide while the Gamemakers watch in disappointment.

"Still got that childlike curiosity," Darios notes. Malvolia grunts.

"He is a child," she reminds him. "It's bothersome, though. He probably won't last long."

Cyber apologises blankly when he's reminded that he has to leave, his time now up. He doesn't put up a fight or demand more time to learn—he just does as he's told, like the doll he is.

"Chambray Hemingway, seventeen; District Eight."

Chambray walks calmly into the room, hardly a word out of their mouth as she stands in the middle of the room. She sucks in a deep, steeling breath, and stares up at the Gamemakers with fire in her eyes.

"My talent," Chambray announces, "is my deception."

Gamemakers mutter to one another in confusion. Deception? When? Who did she deceive? Chambray looks to all of them until finally her eyes land on Malvolia. A challenge. A declaration.

She reaches up and unclasps the choker around her throat. With careful, loving hands she cradles it close to her chest. Malvolia doesn't like where this is going.

"My talent," she goes on, and her voice—while raspy and strained—noticeably deepens, "is making you all think I was Chambray."

Darios dives for his microphone immediately. For a moment Malvolia forgets where the frantic action comes from, but Luxor's existence comes crashing down on her shoulders like a large set of weights. "Explain yourself, Miss Hemingway!" Darios demands.

"I'm not Miss Hemingway!" Chambray says defiantly. "I'm her brother. And I've done everything in my power to make sure you never take my sister away from me."

Had Malvolia been holding a glass, it would've shattered in her hand due to the sheer power she'd have gripped it with. Chambray— No. Calico snarls up at the Gamemakers with his fists clenched around his choker. Nothing but rage radiates around Malvolia, infecting each and every Gamemaker as the sheer insult of Calico's actions registers to them.

"Arrest him!" Darios shouts. Calico turns to face the trainers, ready to fight. He's overpowered easily, dragged out of the room as he threatens to expose the flaw in the Games' system if they bring the real Chambray in his place.

Darios is seething once Calico is removed. Malvolia calls Celestia immediately, ignoring Darios's outburst about how it's all Calico's fault that Luxor is even in the Games this year.

"Done already?"

"Celly, there's a problem." She explains the situation to the President, and the immediate response is surprisingly calm.

"Keep him in the Games. Send him to me for a talk after the interviews and give him a high score in the meantime. He'll want you to keep up appearances—humour him."

She hangs up without another word. The instructions don't help to calm any of them down.

"—GOING TO STRANGLE THE LITTLE BASTARD MYSELF!" Darios is trying to push past the Peacekeepers stationed at the door. "LET ME OUT, FOOLS!"

"Darios!" Malvolia booms. Everyone falls silent. Even Darios ceases his yelling. "Sit back down and continue your job!"

"My son, Mal—"

"I don't give a rat's ass about the fact that he's your son, Darios! Either you sit back down right this instant and pretend like we never learned about Calico, or I have you arrested for treason—do you understand me?"

"Luxor Aricunai, eighteen; representing District Eight."

"Now," Malvolia hisses.

By the time Luxor enters the room, the intensity of the air is thick and heavy. Darios is visibly shaken as he watches Luxor move for the spears, but he doesn't dare open his mouth. The glances to Malvolia are proof enough of his fear.

Luxor proves himself decent. Not outstanding, but good enough to show some budding abilities. He conducts himself professionally—oblivious to his partner's earlier scene—and goes so far as to thank the Gamemakers for their time.

Before he leaves, he waves up at his father with a smile. The sound of absolute agony that escapes Darios makes Malvolia want to roll her eyes.

"Oryza Belfast, fifteen; District Nine."

The deaf girl. Malvolia sinks into her seat with a heavy sigh. "This is never-ending."

Oryza shows off a rather surprising skill, scaling the rock wall with minimal assistance from the trainers. For a scrawny, underfed girl from Nine, she does almost as well as Morganite. Had she had any other talent to show off with her rock climbing skill, she'd certainly get a higher score. Malvolia smiles despite herself. She's done well to prove herself today. Her partner should be proud.

As Oryza descends the wall, she lands on her feet with a small grunt. She bloods at her palms hurriedly, probably trying to ease the heat that comes with pain, and then finally she leaves with the signal from a nearby trainer.

"Sweet girl," a Gamemaker behind Malvolia notes.

"Indeed," Malvolia agrees.

"Epsilon Church, seventeen; representing District Nine."

Compared to his partner, Epsilon is much more intimidating. He looks like he has a plan as he strides in. Much like the other two career boys, Epsilon requests for close quarters combat to demonstrate his talent.

Whatever he has as a hobby, it's definitely unorthodox. He's doing better than Wystan had with his swords, and Epsilon is only using his fists. It's like watching a one-sided boxing match, the poor trainer getting his ass handed to him on a silver platter by Epsilon with every punch.

His knuckles are bruised and bleeding a little when his time is up, but he's definitely doing better than the trainer. A couple of teeth have been knocked out and his nose is most definitely broken. Malvolia's actually impressed.

He's escorted to the infirmary as the next District is announced. Only six to go, hang in there.

"Octavia Faye, seventeen; District Ten."

The subject of Quatra's sabotage. All eyes are glued to Octavia as she walks into the room. Darios, for the most part, has begun to drown his sorrows in more scotch; everyone else is more than willing to see what the rebel's child has to offer.

Octavia picks up a knife from one of the stations and walks over to an unused dummy. There's a displeased, scrunched up expression on her face as she looks between the dummy and the knife. In one jerky movement she stabs the knife into the dummy's chest. It topples to the ground, bleeding out.

She glances back at them. They're expecting more from her. Octavia just half-heartedly kicks the dummy before calling out, "Can I go now?"

What an underwhelming performance. As she's escorted out, Malvolia deadpans, "She did that on purpose."

"I hope all these rebel scum die," Darios sobs drunkenly.

"Gossamer Wormwood, seventeen; representing District Ten."

Octavia's partner—another person Quatra warned them about—swaggers in with a smile. Gossamer looks more than confident as he makes his way to the swords station, his posture and footwork elegant and perfect as he gives a small, solo display.

It's when he invites a trainer to fight with him that he lets loose. Gossamer goes on the offensive, and Malvolia's never seen a tribute enjoy themselves so damn much while fighting a trainer. The smile on his face is blood-curdling and predatory, the way he exploits his trainer's weak points almost horrifying to watch. It's a miracle that Gossamer doesn't draw any blood—though, if he'd been given more time than was allotted, Malvolia is certain he'd have done more than just that.

As the buzzer goes off, Gossamer disengages and looks up at the Gamemakers. "I could also provide mental skills," he offers. Malvolia shakes her head.

"You've already used your sabotage. Please vacate the area for the next tribute."

He does so with a smile, gracefully holding himself high above the trainers who see to his exit.

"Avita Clements-McMillan, fifteen; representing District Eleven."

The pudgy girl that enters is less than impressive. Malvolia never knows why, but every time they get up to District Nine the excitement begins to wear off. Maybe it's the boredom of repeating the same thing over and over. Maybe these Districts just seem to be a natural conductor of uninteresting tributes. Maybe a bit of both.

She tries her hand at a dart gun, surprising everyone by the choice, but not much happens in the way of performance. Every shot is missed, she fumbles when reloading, and more than once Avita drops the weapon due to recoil. If Malvolia's being honest, Finnegan did better with the crossbow.

Avita pouts and crosses her arms in front of her chest as the buzzer goes off. She probably knows she'll get a bad score, and her expression shows it when she looks up at the Gamemakers. As though out of pity, someone behind Malvolia begins to applaud the girl.

Avita leaves with a newfound bounce in her step after that. At least she has one supporter.

"Jareth Vilna, fourteen; District Eleven."

Compared to his well-fed partner, Jareth is a walking skeleton that looks like he's seen better days. She's seen how much tesserae he's taken over the years, and Malvolia's a little shocked he doesn't have a little more meat on his bones thanks to it all. It's not something she particularly wants to focus on—District Eleven's childrens' wellbeings have been somewhat of a sore spot for her since she first began her job. So she forces herself to ignore the boy's physical state, instead focusing on his talent.

Like a few others, he challenges a trainer to a fight. Jareth squares up and gets ready to attack—and then, within mere seconds, he's thrown back with a cry and landing on the matt with a dull thud. This is how each attempt to start a fight ends, and it's… Pitiful. That's the only thing to call it. The display is pitiful, Jareth is pitiful, the determination he shows every time he gets up is pitiful.

The buzzer goes off just as the first few bruises begin to colour. Malvolia cradles her head in her hands with a heavy sigh. It'll only get worse from here.

"Florence Fontana, fifteen; representing District Twelve."

And how. Florence looks like she'll bring something smart to the table, but when she opens the memory game all she does is match birds. Owls, canaries, magpies, past feathered mutts. All birds. It's exhausting to watch, and even Malvolia is downing as much alcohol as possible to just make it end.

With a few minutes left on the timer, Florence finishes up and calls out, "Can I put in my sabotage?"

Malvolia sighs deeply. "Yes?"

"I wanna have a mutt like the one from the Forty-Third Games appear! The big barn owl!"

God. She actually feels sorry for Nirav Cashille, of all people. How in the world did he end up with the most childish tributes there?

"Sure." Malvolia sends a message to the mutt designers through her tablet. "Is that all, Miss Fontana?"

"Yeah! This'll be so cool—I get to see Lola after this, right? I've been waiting so long to say hello. She's so pretty and nice and beautiful. Do you think she'll like me? I hope she likes me. This is so exciting! Maybe she'll take me to the aviary and we'll have so much fun watching the birds! And Luxor will come too, and we can hold a tea party and—"

The buzzer, in an act of mercy, goes off.

Florence is escorted out, and Malvolia is most definitely feeling the buzz in the back of her mind. She'll have to apologise to the mutt designers later for any typos that might have appeared in her message. It's really been a long day.

"Cole Aish, twelve; District Twelve."

The last one… The last tribute… Malvolia has never been more thankful in her life.

Cole, to his credit, shows something more entertaining than Florence had. He heads over to the chemistry table and begins to gather supplies, and soon enough he's making a mock molotov cocktail. It's small and unremarkable at first—but then he spills it just as it's set alight, and the panic that erupts is he wake up call the Gamemakers were in desperate need of.

Trainers put out the fire (which had somehow spread across the entire table, threatening to reach the dummies next door) and Cole is escorted out with endless apologies in his wake. "Please don't tell Buttercup!" he begs. "She's really mean to me!"

Malvolia really, really feels bad for Nirav Cashille. More so for Buttercup.

"We're done," she breathes, relieved. Three sabotages logged, and twenty-four "performances" given out. It's all they have to do for the day. They can simply score everyone and call it quits, leaving more than enough time to relax before the bloodbath tomorrow.

She rises from her chair with a groan. She doesn't even pay the drunken, sobbing Darios any mind as she heads to the door. Instead, she looks to the Avox closest to her and says, "Bring me six more of the fruitest cocktails available."

It's going to be a long night.

DONE! And that's not even going to be the longest of the chapters, heck. Mik has their work cut out for them...

QQ #22: How many of you saw the twist with Calico coming?

Bit of a simple question to ask, but this has been in the works for a while and I think I hinted at it too much lmao. But that's the private sessions done! Next up is the score reveals, and we'll be hanging around with Sim for those! See you then!