Chapter Seventeen - "Be Our Beacon"

"Zenobia," a familiar voice whispers into my ear. "It's time to wake up."

A hand gentle rubs circles on my back, prompting me to flip over and find Fletcher standing at my bedside. When he's sure I wont drift back to sleep, he points to my clothes for the day before telling me he'd be outside.

"Please, take your time," he soothes with a forced grin.

I opt to take a shower for what was most likely the very last time for a long while before moving toward the clothes set out for me. They were the typical uniform we would wear during the training days except the t-shirt was now a quarter-zipper tracksuit. As I fasten my pair of boots on, despite all the good words, all the HV coverage and being a part of the Twelve Club, I'm hit with a wave of unease, my body flushing over with an uncomfortable warmth. It's the feeling of the unknown. Not being entirely in charge of what's going to happen next. Remembering the conversation with Serene and Kaiser, I force myself to rise and make my way to the dining room table. Even then my feet feel encased in cinderblock.

The Boys are seated around the table. Viondra is nowhere in sight. My head cranes to the left, my eyes looking through the wide-paneled glass windows to find that the sun has yet to rise. At least that isn't a surprise. Waking up before the sun is something Overwhill has gotten me used to.

"Where's Viondra?" I ask, slipping onto an available seat.

Wyatt shakes his head. "She won't be joining us, unfortunately."

"Please Zenobia, eat as much as you can," says Fletcher, motioning for an Avox, who quickly begins piling my plate.

"And try to turn off your brain," Amir adds. "I hear tributes get really sick the closer they get to launch."

"I'm sure she knows that, Amir," deadpans Wyatt. "If anything, you're just making her think even more now-"

"I just want to make sure she's okay, Wyatt," Amir claps back, his features softening when he turns back to face me. "Are you okay?"

Somehow, I frown while nodding. "...Yes?"

"I know that look very well, sister." Wyatt says with a hesitant chuckle. When he notices I'm becoming more and more uncomfortable, he gestures to my plate of food. "Eat eat eat."

Fighting through my knotty stomach, knowing it's all a head game, I force myself to eat what's on my plate bite by bite. I can't help but feel a little unease as the Trio each watch me with sorrowful frowns.

"Listen, Zenobia..." Fletcher begins, his fork clattering against his plate as he looks me squarely in the eyes. "I know we've barely spoke since you got here, but I think I speak for Wyatt and Amir when I say that styling for you was a huge privilege. Not just because we've gained so much exposure...It's just that, you know, your story and you-"

"You're inspirational, is what Fletch is trying to say," Amir pipes in. "So, so powerful and brave. Honest to Panem, I haven't seen anything like it before."

"It takes a lot of guts to do what you're doing, especially under these circumstances," adds Wyatt. "I wish we got to get to know you a little bit longer..."

"Especially after hearing your story," says Fletcher. "Viondra only told us what we needed to know, but she should've told us so much more, so we could be there for you better. You might've already noticed, but we're pretty good at spreading a little cheer if need be."

"You were there for me," I reply with a modest grin. "And hey, you'll have all the time in the world to know me after I claw my way out of...whatever the hell they're about to throw my way. I'm going to need some of those new outfit pieces to show off."

They grin at that, chuckle even, while Amir dabbles at tears and Fletcher lets them flow freely. They're not bad, all things considered, especially when prep teams get such a bad rep. It could've been so much worse.

Our heads whip towards the elevator doors as they hiss open revealing two Peacekeepers. All helmeted up of course. They didn't have to say a word. We all know what time it is. So, I lead the table in rising as I turn toward the PKs, sigh deeply and stride over with my head held high. Just as we enter the elevator, I stop and turn toward my prep team.

"The victors back in two didn't have kind words to say about their prep teams," I say. "I do though. Thanks for uh...making the process a little more bearable."

That's all there is to say. I'm not much for mushiness. The Boys don't seem to mind, however, as the three of them each show approval in their own little way.

"May the odds be ever in your favor," calls Wyatt.

"We'll help Viondra as much as we can," adds Amir.

Fletcher steps forward. "You just go in there and do what you said you would, okay?"

I nod, waving towards The Boys as the Peacekeepers coax me into the elevator proper.

Once inside, I'm surprised when one of the PKs gently squeeze my bicep. I turn around, taking the soldier in. I can tell by the breastplate and overall build that they are a female. No matter how much I try, their polarized visor doesn't allow me to see their face. But then I notice the telltale insignia of a sergeant right there on their helmet. Claudia jangles some cuffs in her hands and I know the drill, bringing my hands behind me as she does the honors. I can't help but notice that as I'm escorted across the grand, circular foyer, Claudia has a gentle hand against my back guiding me forward. If it weren't for her guiding hand, I would be stumbling my way out of here.

I find myself outside now. The sunrise is blotted out by a deep overcast. Not even the quarter-zip sweater helps against the morning coolness that blows my way. And just like how I arrived, it seems I'll be departing by troop carrier again. There's dozens of them lined up against the curb, waiting to take all ninety-six of us to who knows where. I guess exiting via the roof is out of the question this time around due to the increased number of tributes.

Claudia's hand presses against my back, taking me out of my head as we make our way across the terrace down the stairs and toward the carriers. The Press are present, obviously, their cameras flashing and clicking as they follow my every move. Channeling the same Zenobia that stormed down the aisle on Reaping Day, I pay them no mind as Claudia guides me to the leading truck, easing me into the back where the same old faces greet me. I'm surprised that apart from the usual gaze people give when someone new enters the space, none of them bother to hold it. Tatiana, Rabe, Rief, none of them look at me with utter disgust on their faces. Instead, they appear to stare into space, realizing that in a few short hours, they will be fighting and dying. Eunice appears to be weeping into her sleeve while her brother offers comfort.

Our eyes lock for the briefest of moments. The brother and I. I offer up a grin, which bursts into a full-blown smile as he frowns deeply. He knows that his time is almost up. Him and his sister. I mentally hope that his pedestal is positioned closer to mine, or maybe his sister's is closer to mine. Maybe then he could watch his sister get taken out before it's his turn.

I sit down right beside Spinel, who appears to be resting of all things. Her eyes are shut and there's a pleasant expression on her face. Across the way is Syndra appearing anxious but present enough to flash me a sad grin. It's something I quickly return, remembering how worked up they all were yesterday. The PKs take their positions in the middle of the laneway as the truck shudders to life again.

Instead of worrying about hypotheticals, I do what Spinel does. Rest. Panem knows I won't be getting much of it in the next couple of hours.

Through the darkness, I hear the telltale sound of the carrier hissing to a halt.

"Stand up! Prepare to dismount!"

I open my eyes, not putting up a fight when the PKs manhandle me down the steps onto what appears to be a tarmac buzzing with activity. PKs bark orders over loudspeakers as the rest of the convoy rolls in. We're made to line up in formations, military-style. Each tribute is formed up with their respective group of six. Besides the whirr of hovercraft engines, the tarmac is dead silent. The tracksuit I wear is all but useless now as a gust of cool air blows through, battering us. The Basic Career Training and Intermediate Career Training have gotten me accustomed to existing in unpleasant weather conditions. The same couldn't be said for my competition. I can hear their teeth chattering and their grumbles of discomfort all around me. Even still, the PKs aren't taking a chance. Some hold muttated dogs at bay, while some of them finger with their rifles, just daring for someone to make a move. No one does. They're too cold and depressed.

Two more carriers roll onto the tarmac. Dismounting from them are more Peacekeepers, however, these ones are dressed up like medical technicians. I immediately spot Dr. Rhodes making a beeline towards my group. At lightning speed, Peacekeepers assemble fold-out tables for the doctors to sit at – one for each District.

"Proceed forward," Dr. Rhodes says. She means to say it aloud, I know this, but she looked directly at me while she said it.

I go directly to her, unravelling my shirt to expose my arm when commanded to. Dr. Rhodes takes out a gun of some sort and injects me with a glowing orb. The infamous tracker. She preps me for something else too, swabbing my bicep before injecting me with a clear fluid.

"What's this one for?"

"Hormonal suppressant." Dr. Rhodes. "Stunts things such as hair growth for the boys and menstrual cycles for the girls."

"Huh..." I grunt, the tiniest of grins on my lips. "Thank The Capitol for small mercies..."

Chances are ninety-six tributes won't dwindle down to a sole survivor within a week. Wouldn't want to grapple with that on top of everything else in the arena. After she administers the shot, there's a small lull between the two of us. I try breaking away, but Dr. Rhodes won't let me leave. There's a yearning in her eyes. It's like she wants to say something but due to all the ears around us, she can't.

A PK notices, adjusting his slung rifle a little bit. "Is everything alright, ma'am?"

"Everything is alright, Private." Dr. Rhodes replies without skipping a beat, her eyes focused squarely on me. "The tribute is feeling a little lightheaded is all."

Her eyes not leaving mine, she finally lets me go. We did have a final goodbye yesterday, so I imagine that's what she wants to reiterate to me. Keep your head in the Game, revenge is on the table but it isn't the only thing. I don't want to end up as the female version of Titus.

"Thank you, Doctor." I say, clearing my throat as I nod. "For everything."

I get a simple nod in return, alongside the smallest of grins. I'm put back into formation as the PKs tear down the tables as fast as they put them up. Dr. Rhodes spares me one last glance before she's aided up into the carrier and her convoy is on the move again.

I have an idea on what she wanted to drive home to me. Keep a level head. Widespread adoration doesn't protect against mutt swarms or determined tributes.

We stand huddled like a herd of animals for what feels like eons before a hovercraft materializes from up above, gently descending some hundred meters before us. This hovercraft is large, unlike any model I've seen before, though it still retains its triangle shape. It's so large they have to drive steps to get people on board – like the airplanes of pre-Panem.

"Districts 1 and 2, proceed in a single file toward the hovercraft." commands a PK Captain, his voice amplified by his helmet. "The remainder will follow behind."

We do what we're told. Syndra joins at the end of One's line so she could stay close to me, constantly looking back at me before she's barked at not to. As we march up the stairs toward the hovercraft, I spare a glance backward. The City's some distance away already. Once inside the large hovercraft, I'm immediately guided into the first rows of seats by virtue of being higher in district number.

My 'partner' for this trip is none other than Eldwyn Bishop. We exchange the briefest of glances but that's about it. I wonder to myself if I should ask him about what he's heard in regards to myself but I decide against it. No need to work myself up.

I get comfortable in my seat. This counts as the second time I took a hovercraft ride. The first ride was the summer of my freshman year, on a miniature deployment to combat village flooding. So, when the hovercraft ascends high into the sky, winds itself back and launches forward in such a way that has me being forced up against my seat, I wonder if hovercrafts are supposed fly this fast. Maybe this hovercraft serves a different purpose. Long range travel rather than short range travel.

"Apparently this is the fastest HC in their fleet."

I swivel my neck toward Eldwyn, who shrugs. "PKs said so themselves, heard 'em conversin'. Can fly from the east coast to the west coast in an hour. If the arena were near, they would've polarized the windows by now."

"Great..." I mumble. I'm not sure what that means for a potential arena. Could be anywhere now. "Thanks for the info, I guess."

He shrugs dismissively. "No problem...I guess."

It's on the top of my tongue, my response. Should I respond or should I let it be? Eldwyn isn't a Rebel, he's basically a tribute. Which means I have slightly less hatred for him. Sighing, I turn to look at him.

"Good luck out there, Eldwyn...I mean it," I say.

He appears slightly surprised at my words as he cranes his head to look at me. He nods, muttering something under his breath that I'm going to assume is a word of thanks.

Sometime into our flight, the cabin lights shut off and the windows polarize. We're close. The lighting speed that we were traveling at quickly comes to a halt, causing us to lurch back and forth in our seats before I feel the telltale feeling of the hovercraft descending. One PK rises from his seat, passing Spinel and Lilith a box.

"Take one and pass it on." he commands.

The box comes my way and I find myself taking out a black material – a hood. Knowing the drill, I place the blinding material over my head. After a minute the PK speaks again.

"You're going to be tapped. If you are tapped, you will rise out of your seat where you will be taken off the hovercraft."

Being one of the first few tributes at the front of the hovercraft, I'm tapped immediately. Blinded and handcuffed, I wriggle my way upright just as a PK grabs me by the arm and guides me into the aisle and out of the hovercraft.

Remember Zen, we're at the arena now. What is it? Do I have any idea where I am? I retreat back to my senses. Smells...smells like normal air to me. Feelings? It's cool if not colder than The Capitol. I can't probe much else with a blindfold on. I do hear the telltale rumble of trucks, however, as we're marched up a ramp and made to sit in one of them. I turn to my right as I hear feminine humming not far off. Spinel.

The ride is a couple of minutes tops. What surprises me is the fact that the truck comes to a stop and appears to be descending – as if we were on an elevator. Once that feeling is over, a PK gives us the order to stand up.

Once we stand up, we're made to get off the carrier. There's a lot of foot traffic and radio chatter. I'm passed off to a dozen people before the noise gets gradually quieter – the only thing I can hear the clomping of my boots and the boots of the PK next to me.

A door creaks open. My sight comes back.

We're in a concrete room...mostly. It consists of sick-green tiled walls, a metal table in the middle and off to the side coupled with a holographic clock. The infamous launch tube is off in the corner. The clock says 1000 hours... I could've sworn it was five in the morning when Fletcher woke me. So we went forward in time, which means we're east.

The PK unbinds my shackles and directs me to sit down. I murmur my thanks, following his direction as he turns to leave. He's posted just outside the door, judging by how he slips through the open crack and his visible shadow. With not much else to do, I let out a sigh, planting one hand onto my cheek.

Here we are, Launch Day.

Paulus leans against one of the walls, grinning like an idiot as he begins to shadowbox. Someone's happy for me.

A while later, just outside I hear a pair of jackboots clomping against the ground, coming closer and closer until the PK swings the door open, revealing Viondra. She's put back together in her dress uniform.

"There she is...the mutt's roar herself." she breathes, moving aside to allow subordinates to enter the room. Sergeant Moore has a gift box. The subordinate Corporal has a circular container of sorts. A Private has a garment bag which most likely contains my arena outfit. She directs the PKs to place the items throughout the room.

"Thank you, boys," Viondra purrs, nudging her head toward the open door. "You can park yourselves outside."

The three men comply, shifting out of the room while closing the door shut. Satisfied, Viondra turns her attention to me. She leans against the table, fastening a cigarette into her holder before lighting it up, taking a lengthy drag and exhaling.

"Here we are..." she chimes with her trademark grin. "You've come a far way from "Ms. Spitfire.""

"Here we are." I grin back, slightly amused at my Escort's antics. I don't think Panem will ever see an Escort like her ever again. Throughout my entire trip through the Capitol, I found myself constantly astonished with all the strings she could pull. She couldn't help doing it one more time by having PKs at her beck and call, even as a lowly First Lieutenant.

If she wasn't here, I'd be perceived as just another Reb or even worse, an overeager Career who just couldn't stand not getting their shot. With everything that went on during my week here, I wonder just how long I would've truly lasted on my own.

"You weren't at the Training Center," I say, rising out of my seat to receive her hug. We split apart partially while she still has me by the shoulders, caressing them.

Viondra smirks. "Why would I give up leading my charge into history?"

"Thought this was a job for The Boys?"

"I'm a woman of many talents?" she replies with a dismissive shrug. "Not that it takes much to dress a tribute up, give them a kind word and ship them off."

"Fair," I nod.

I watch now as she saunters over to another table situated next to a locker, picking up that container the Private brought in, placing it in front of me. She lifts the cover to reveal plates of piping hot food.

"You have an hour until launch," she says. "There's literally no reason to rush and I advise you don't. You'll be no good to us with a tummy ache."

I nod obediently as I begin to dig in to the dishes that were brought for me. I make sure to savor every single morsel I bring to my mouth. Panem knows what type of food I'll be eating in the arena. Who knows if it'll be my last? With the strength of the Capitol, Paulus, Mom and Dad on my side, it most likely won't be. When I finish my meal, Viondra moves for the garment bag next.

"Let's see what we have here..." she murmurs. "Will our heroine be battling it out in a desert, slogging it through a swamp?"

My eyes follow her hand as she unzips the bag. "The possibilities are endless..."

She lays out the uniform for both of us to see. It was a typical area uniform for temperate climates. We have a two-sock system, a pair of khaki, multi-pocketed pants with a black t-shirt, orange hooded sweater and blood red jacket that designates me as a District 2 tribute. I immediately think back to HG 74 and let out a sigh of relief. No freezing my ass off (too much at least) and no going stir crazy in a blistering canyon.

"I think the outfit speaks for itself, no?" Viondra asks as I nod along. "Remember, it's November. Without spoiling it, I'll tell you that you're on a coast. It will be cold, hence the sweater."

Beats a tundra. "Right."

She nudges her head toward the stall on the other side of the room. "Now, get changed."

I obey, retreating back to the stall to slip on my uniform. It feels comfortable. Judging by how warm I already feel, I should function fine outside if this morning in The Capitol is the norm. Once I'm dressed, Viondra gives me the last portion of my uniform again, tall brown boots made out of leather and insoles with wool. Yep, it's going to be a cool one alright.

And then, Viondra slips a communicuff onto my wrist as well. It isn't bulky like most models, but resembles a plain-Jane watch. I glance at Viondra inquisitively, who in turn raises a brow.

"What will it be?" I ask. "The arena?"

"The communicuff could mean anything," Viondra explains, shrugging playfully. "Perhaps they want you to have a map to keep track of your location? I can't say for sure."

I frown. We've gotten this far, so you might as well spill. "But what about the arena? A communicuff is-"

She makes a motion of zipping her mouth shut and throwing away the key. "Nothing you haven't handled before, literally. Use your head and you won't get killed."

"Nothing I haven't handled before..." I repeat lamely. "Alright, I'll take that for an answer."

We sit in silence for a moment until Viondra pipes up again.

"Every loyal citizen in Panem is over the moon for you," she says absentmindedly, taking another drag of her cigarette. "We're swimming in sponsorship cash – the grand majority of it donated by commoners."

"How about my opposition?"

"Negligible." she replies. "I reviewed some security footage of the tribute dormitories. The last twenty-four hours. Those tributes want nothing less than to see you with two wings and a halo."

I shrug. "I figured as much as soon as I left Two."

Viondra's lips curl into a smirk. "But you won't give them that satisfaction...?"

"Not if I can help it, no."

"Good." Viondra replies. "Because your story is far, far too legendary for it to be snuffed out in that arena. Do it for The Capitol, do it for me, do it for all those livelihoods that have been forever changed. And most importantly..."

I lean up just a little bit taller on my chair. "Do it for me."

I said I came here for three people. I'm going to get my three people come hell or high water...And maybe a few more Rebels along the way.

"Attention all tributes," chimes a pleasant female voice. A child's voice. "Please mount your pedestals. Thirty seconds until launch. I repeat, thirty seconds until launch."

Both of Viondra's brows raise as we rise to our seats. I make my way over to the tube as Viondra rushes to retrieve the gift box on the table. She presses it into my waiting arms.

"Open it," she hisses gently. "Consider its contents a gift from myself and other benefactors who would very much like it if you were successful in these Games."

I oblige, popping off the lid and murmuring a "My Gods..." as I come face to face with the contents. I'm astonished to see two triple-bladed punch daggers staring back at me. They weren't really daggers, as the hilts were prolonged and unlike any daggers I've seen before. And oh my Gods the hilts...They were ornate, just like the blades with their floral designing.

"They're not your typical punch daggers," Viondra points out. "They're katars, originating from the Orient - like a katana or monk's spade. I'm sure you learned enough Games history to know this already."

Viondra quickly helps me fix the gauntlets onto my forearms. I'm surprised to see that they fit right under my jacket cuffs as I retract and protract them into short blades and split them into claws at ease. All at the flick of a button. I can't help but smirk, imagining all the damage these things could do in my capable hands.

Viondra grins too, folding her arms. "As I said, I wouldn't put it behind those ruffians to choke you out as soon as the gong sounds so why not have an extra layer of assurance?"

I give the weapons a look over, marveling at how they shine like mirrors. It's a shame that they're going to get dirtied in the arena. I glance back up at my Escort. I'm not sure what else to say besides...

"Thank you, Viondra." I awkwardly open myself up for a hug, something she takes in stride. "For your help. I'm not one to admit when I'm wrong, but..."

"You are very much welcome, Zenobia." Viondra coos, breaking off the hug. "Imagine how dull this job would be without having to mind after you?"

"Ten seconds until launch." This time it's a boyish, male voice that announces it.

"Okay Rivendell, this is it. Don't let your anger be a guide but a motivator." Viondra says with a firm edge in her tone, rushing me into the pod. Using a manicured finger, she fastens the seal of Panem onto my jacket's lapel and taps it. My mind immediately goes to Fire Girl's infamous pin. I guess I'm the anti-Fire Girl. "Remember, we've been hurt Zenobia – you've been hurt. Be our beacon. Be our judge, jury and executioner."

I glance down at the pin and then back up at Viondra. It's now that any and all doubt I have about these Games wash away. I have all of Loyalist Panem on my side. It's enough.

I nod. "I will."

"Now," Viondra gestures to the surface, flashing her pristine white teeth. "Go make history."

Suddenly, the pod seals and begins to rise, startling both of us. While I rise, I follow Viondra's eyes until I can't no longer. I catch the quickest of winks before she disappears. And then the darkness comes, coupled with the whirring of the pod slowly making its way to the surface. Somewhere along the way, the national anthem begins to play. I lift my head up as my world begins to light up again. I'm met with overcast. Even with the overcast, I find myself shielding my eyes as the pod halts in place.

My eyes adjust quicker than expected.

We're in a park. In the middle of a city that's seen better days, much better days, judging by the skyscrapers. Most are dilapidated beyond repair.

I grin to myself, taking in the venue. My grin breaks into a chuckle. Back at Overwhill, we'd do field exercises in derelict cities like this all the time in the summer. And if you're real lucky, you could do exercises with full-fledged PKs - which I have.

"Welcome tributes, to the Seventy-Sixth Annual Hunger Games!" chimes the female child voice.

"May the odds be ever in your favor." the male child adds on. In tandem, the two begin the countdown one after the other.

Sixty...Fifty-nine...Fifty-eight...

I look to my front. I'm smack dab in the middle of a large semi-circle, facing the mouth of the horn. Some hundreds of meters away is the cornucopia. I'm not sure if it's me, but the horn seems less flush with loot than previous years. I find myself caressing my gauntlets that reside under my sleeves. I don't need to worry about right now, thank Panem. Even if I leave the cornucopia with nothing, I imagine tons of sponsor items in my future.

Now...Where are the Capitols? I turn to my right, finding Spinel staring right at me. In typical Spinel fashion, she winks at me and offers a flirty wave.

I turn my attention to my left, glaring at Jeremiah as he looks anywhere but my direction, besides the hesitant glance every split second. A little ways away from him is Eunice, waving frantically to gain his attention. I can't find the Capitols no matter where I look. This doesn't seem like a circle built for ninety-six contestants.

What is that? I turn my attention back to the series of very loud thumping noises I keep on hearing. Thump! Thump! Thump!

Tributes cry out in horror as others within the circle decide to end their life on their own terms. Numerous pedestals were now comparable to smoldering chimneys, their occupants nowhere to be found. I could smell them though as a indescribable and pungent odor blows my way. I make sure to block out the screams of my 'fellow contestants'. Spinel giggles like an idiot.

"Thirty-one...Thirty...Twenty-eight...Twenty-seven..."

Focus Zen. Three men, remember? Revenge. Matix was no where to be found, neither was Shadd. My eyes meet Jeremiah again, and his black skin blanches at the sight of me. Looking at him, alive and well upsets me. I clench my fists and let out a wobbly exhale. When I look at him, I remember his dog of a father and what he did. My mind immediately flashes back to the morning in question and I immediately want to pop a mint into my mouth and brush my teeth raw. I just as I remember the morning, I remember his taste too.

I wont be upset for long, though. Just a few more seconds and I'll be free to settle the score. I hope his relatives are watching.

"Nineteen...Eighteen...Seventeen..."

I pivot to my left, so that my body faces his pedestal. I want him to be fearful. I want him to know that his life will end in fifteen seconds. He sees me doing this, causing him to throw his arms up in defeat while scanning the entirety of the field for a way out.

"Thirteen...Twelve...Eleven..."

Jeremiah raises his foot up and begins unfastening his boot. My brows furrow. Why would he do that?

I spare another glance around me. In the distance, other tributes were following his lead, taking off their boots all while glaring daggers at me. And then I remember. Any sudden moves off this pedestal before the countdown expires...boom you go.

My vision shifts from Jeremiah who bounces his boot with a look of utter hatred on his face, to the others who seem to be in on it too.

Ah shit.

"So much for Ms. Spitfire!" a girl calls out.

I pivot to see who said it, only to be met with a boot slamming into my vision. I wasn't ready for the blow, causing me to lose my footing and tumble off the pedestal. I let out a strangled cry, hoping to Panem that when I touch the grass I don't feel a thing.

I do feel a thing. That thing being the dewy grass wetting my face up, not to mention multiple pairs of boots raining down on me. No immense pain, no searing flames or loud booms.

I quickly lift my neck to find that tributes are racing off their pedestals toward the horn. I bring my hands to my eyes, elated that all of me is intact and not spread out over a twenty feet radius. Was it the Gamemakers or was it just timing that allowed me to survive?

I ease myself onto my knees. Who cares. The count down is over. The Games start now. It's time to make good on my threat.

I rise to my feet, locking eyes with Jeremiah who appears surprised that his little tactic didn't work. Eyes bulging, he shakes himself free of shock as and leaps off his pedestal. My vision focuses on him and him only as I pump my legs as hard as I can. It's automatic. I said I would kill him and now was my chance. He barely brakes ten feet from his pedestal before I'm on him, tackling him to the ground. I spin him onto his back.

He tries to throw a hook. I counter by grabbing his wrist and fastening it onto the ground. I mash my first into his nose not once, but twice, relishing in the wet crack that emits from his nose. He's bleeding now, and my fist is stained red. His blood pools in the wrong pipe, because he coughs and flecks of the stuff pepper my face.

Just as he tries to escape my grasp, I grab him by the ankle. Quickly, I turn the foot to an awkward angle and twist. It's tough, very tough, but something gives way and he cries out, crying even louder when I do the same thing to his other ankle.

His sister cries out for him a few meters away. With him not going anywhere, doing her in would be a piece of cake.

Before I could make my way over to her. a pair of dark hands grab me and force me into a headlock. Whoever my assailant is, he's tall and is built like an ox. I'm forced onto my tiptoes in an attempt to free myself from his grasp.

"...Fuck off of me!" I hiss through gritted teeth. I struggle against his grasp, jerking and bucking my hips to no avail.

"...We're gonna make an example outta you, Spitfire..." It's the Eleven boy, the one who decided to make a wise crack at my expense after the ranges. His breath is hot and unpleasant. "Shame The Capitol's gonna lose it's prized pig so early, eh?"

We're. He isn't alone. Nine others join us in a loose circle, a rainbow of tributes from various districts judging by their jackets.

Not a problem.

I put my hands against either side of Eleven's head and activate my gauntlets. There's a chorus of gasps and cries of shock.

It's like flicking an 'off switch'. There are no cries of agony from having two twelve inch blades fastened into your brain. Without a word, his grip on me slackens, his fingers splaying outward. With a grunt, I rip the blades out of his head as he crumples backward.

"C-C'mon guys!" A male from District 9 barks out. "Bitch can't take all of us!"

Ignoring Jeremiah's whimpering, I take a long look at each of my adversaries. They're all the textbook definition of startled. But still, they grip their various weapons with trembling hands as they slowly inch their way toward me. I go down on a knee and stab a gauntlet into Jeremiah's foot as he lets out a yowl. Blood pools around the indent as I push the blade deeper. I don't want him to go anywhere while I'm preoccupied. District 9 and his lackeys jump back, astonished. Some even have disgust mixed in with their fearful expressions. Kinda pathetic.

Ripping the blade out of Jeremiah's leg, I stand up and I glance at the Eleven I just offed. There are two, deep indents in either side of his head as blood pools onto the grass around him. The blades scrambled his egg so bad, his eyes are rolled inward from the shock.

I smile, sparing a quick glance at my bloodied gauntlets. Paulus is right. It does feel good. Killing. Besting others. Better than a silly arithmetic or obstacle course test back at the Academy.

I take up a wide, defensive stance - legs spread apart with my blood-stained gauntlets raised.

The tributes in front of me go wide-eyed as I activate the secondary function of my gauntlets, splitting my precise blades into three, long claws just waiting to make new acquaintances.

A/N: And thus, we have reached the Games. Most stories never reach this far, be they SYOT or general. So I'd like to think I'm onto something here. Thanks for clicking and reading along. I'd move it to 'M' but I think we're good where we are. Hopefully you have fun reading this act just as much as I had writing it out.