CHAPTER XXV: PRIVATE SESSIONS
Kishor Mahadio • Master of Ceremonies
Lady Luck Casino / July 6th, 11:03 PM
The night prior.
Oh, how Kishor loves the casino.
It's a dopamine death trap. All around her are the blaring sounds of slot machines and laughter. The sharp smells of charred cigars and aged liquor. Idle chatter, and the occasional torrent of swears from a rowdy patron. Busy hands abandoned in the rhythm of machines, cards, and drink; focused gazes eerily vacant.
Something is alive everywhere she looks, but barely present. It's as if every individual in this place is suspended in an experience, like a dragonfly caught in a thick glob of amber, mid-flicker. They linger in anticipation of a consequence, the way a moth ambles through the air before searing itself against electric radiance.
Most casino goers only come for a flirtatious scrimmage with risk. They lose a couple hundred and cut their losses, still in good spirits. This describes the overwhelming majority of her father's acquaintances, back when he was an established politician but not yet the President of Panem. An upscale casino invites many professional individuals in a relatively lax setting, and her father found the environment fast-paced, rigorous, high-risk — a funny contrast to the procedural, often lagging pace of politics. He told her that he enjoyed seeing how much people could stand to lose.
(Quite a lot, as Kishor would learn when she grew old enough to accompany her father to these meetings. The ambitious bit down badly before they realized their efforts were futile; the smart knew to back down when it was clear her father had swept the table clean.)
Desperation feels the rest of Lady Luck's patrons. They seek hope, an answer, or at the very least a reprieve from reality in the technicolor haze of betting tables and machines. Kishor suspects the person before her falls in the first category.
Before Kishor is a man of around forty, who would be good-looking if not for his five o'clock shadow and the dark circles stamped beneath his eyes like a stain. It appears as if he hasn't slept or showered for days; his reddish hair is dull and rusty, unwashed. His skin looks unaccustomed to wrinkles that crease together on his forehead and his mouth, the expression as alien to his body as the sight is to Kishor's eyes. The man's supposedly bright and breezy demeanor has long vanished. Neffilus Zorp himself is a far cry from the ever-young, dazzling starlets his surgery advertisements boast.
Neffilus's bank details are propped up in a hazy blue hologram on Kishor's side of the table. What remains in his account is only a fraction of what he started with just days prior, and the amount continues to dwindle with each game. It's clear Lady Luck doesn't favor him — he's been abysmally unlucky, even as far as rookie gamblers go. Her father was right, as he usually was; it's fascinating just how much people will sacrifice for even a shred of hope.
When the machine mercilessly flashes red for the twelvth time, Neffilus's face drops. Something giddy flutters in Kishor's chest; outwardly, it translates as even, complaisant smile toward the patron.
"Would you like to proceed?" she asks. "Please keep in mind that the prize will be conducted through the Capitol's new virtual hologram technology, and that you will not be able to physically observe—"
"I don't care," the man snaps, the edge of his voice taut with something frantic. "Again."
Kishor obliges, watching silently as his funds hit the floor of his account. She's sure he registers it the same time she does; this is his last chance. She can practically see the desperation thrum underneath his skin, in his bloodshot eyes, his shaking hands. It's art — it's music.
It's over frighteningly quickly. The cruel red glow swallows Neffilus's devastated expression.
"I'm afraid that you do not have enough funds in this account to continue, Mr. Zorp," Kishor says.
He attempts to take a steadying breath. "Check — check the third savings account under my name."
She doesn't; she already knows. "It's empty."
"Fuck," Neffilus curses, shrill. "What about the money my wife left behind? I know I put it in…"
"In the beneficiary account," Kishor confirms. "Of which you transferred in its entirety to your main account yesterday."
"I…" Neffilus falters, "no — I couldn't have spent it so — God, please…"
He tries to rise from his chair, abruptly crumpling to his knees instead. Kishor regards him coolly, wondering what he will do.
He crawls toward her, the lapels of his unwashed suit chafing against the velvet flooring. It's a pitiful sight, but… pleasing. To him, she should just be the Master of Ceremonies and a casino banker for this year's promotional stunt. But with the way this bleary-eyed man kneels at her feet, hands clasped in a trembling plea, she might as well be God to a sinner.
"Please," Neffilus croaks. "Please, one more game, just one…"
She's only the banker. She has no authority to give him a free game; that's strictly the Den's courtesy. But it seems Neffilus is desperate enough to believe otherwise.
"What can you give me?" Kishor whispers anyway. "There is nothing of yours I want."
It's true. Nothing this man has — or any man has — interests her. But when the man begins blubbering at her feet, with broken exclamations of "my daughter," "please," "I'll do anything—" well, Kishor would be lying if she said the reckless promises didn't strike a chord with her.
As much as the sight before her might indicate otherwise, Kishor's aware that Neffilus Zorp is objectively a high-value individual, with an impressive career under his belt. She's sure she can collect some sort of recompense in due time — if Neffilus didn't kill himself before then, that is.
"One more," Kishor acquiesces. Maybe she feels bad for him. Maybe she's intrigued by what he will do if he wins.
She presses the face of her watch against the machine, depositing just enough money for one more round.
"Thank you," Neffilus gasps breathlessly, "thank—"
"Play," Kishor interrupts.
She watches as Neffilus slinks back to the machine. She watches him spend her generosity, keeping a keen eye on his expression all the while.
And as luck would have it, Kishor's money manages to purchase the man salvation. Neffilus's blinks once, twice in pure shock as jackpot sounds erupt from the machine. A golden ticket flashes before him, three eight-pointed stars printed onto it.
"Congratulations, Neffilus," Kishor smiles. "You may see your daughter one more time."
Viewing Room / July 7th, 12:02 PM
Today.
.🂪.
𝐈. 𝐊𝐈𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐍 𝐋𝐎𝐂𝐊𝐄
Kishor strides into the Gamemaker's viewing room a couple of minutes after private sessions have begun. All of the Gamemakers are concentrated at the front of the large window; already, Kishor can see the first tribute, the District One Male, sliding a sword from the weapons rack. Lisung watches the tribute, etching something on her notepad. The junior Gamemakers lower their heads slightly as Kishor approaches, quickly moving out of the way for her to claim her spot next to Lisung.
"Late," Lisung says, clipped.
"Call it a dramatic entrance."
"With none of your usual flair."
"You can see all that during the Interviews." Kishor extends the object in her hand toward Lisung. "Coffee?"
Lisung takes the coffee without looking, only deploying her gaze from the window for a brief few seconds as she downs the entire cup. She only has to hold the empty cup out slightly before an intern comes to collect her waste.
In the Training Center below, Kieran Locke takes his sword and buries it to the hilt through a dummy's chest. He unsheathes the sword from the dummy in an effortless motion. Tiny transparent pellets spill from the incision, scattering all over the floor.
With another violent swing of his blade, Kieran severs the dummy's head off of its body. Before it can hit the ground, Kieran kicks it skyward with the side of his foot. Another swing of his sword sends the decapitated head falling back to the ground in two clean halves.
"Vicious," Kishor notes.
Lisung is already scribbling sentence after sentence. She writes as she talks in an impressive display of multi-tasking. "Indeed. That's what One's Academy is known for."
Kieran tosses his sword up into the air. It makes several revolutions before coming back into Kieran's palm. He proceeds to show a choreographed parry and block sequence, each motion swift and deadly.
Beside Kishor, Lisung's writing begins to stall. "Good," the woman murmurs, "but nothing that hasn't been done before."
The tribute suddenly casts aside the sword, traversing back to the weapons rack. His hands move in a blur, procuring two spears bundled in each fist.
He bolts to the opposite side of the Training Center, where virtual simulations of tributes stand in an arc. Each figure is faceless and hazy-blue, varying in stature. His sudden rush toward the screen triggers the motion sensor, sending the simulations running toward a void point in the distance. But their efforts prove to be in vain — Kieran's spear soars right through one of the virtual tributes, its form shattering into virtual aquamarine fragments like glass.
"There we go," Lisung smiles to herself.
One after the other, Kieran sends spears after simulated tributes. He cleanly dispatches four without so much as breaking a sweat, a crooked smirk plastered on his face.
The District One Male calls for a trainer to spar with. Within the first thirty seconds, the trajectory of the spar has already been made abundantly clear; Kishor can hardly call it a fight. The trainer is quickly outmatched by Kieran, unable to counter his jabs and sweeping kicks. To add offense, the District One Male seems hardly struggling or even inconvenienced. It makes her wonder why he didn't ask for two; it's as if he's intentionally prolonging the fight to fill in more time.
The tribute is perplexing to watch. His strikes are nearly casual, careless, but still never imprecise. He doesn't seem to be invested in providing a performance or setting a standard — it's strangely unshowy and showy at the same time, like the boy wants to emphasize just how little he cares, and how good he is despite it.
When Kieran decides he's had his fun, he ends the spar quickly, twisting the trainer's arm behind their back. The District One Male leaves early, with a minute and a half left on the clock.
. 🃝.
𝐈𝐈. 𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐔𝐒𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐈
Reverie's knife strikes home in the heart of a dummy. She reclaims the thrown weapon with a violent spray of transparent pellets, holding the dummy fast and skewering one, four — ah, just many more times and much faster than Kishor can count. It's really not difficult to see how Reverie could've been the perpetrator of two Academy-related casualties.
The District One Female drops the body to the ground, not that there's much of a body left; at this point, it's little more than a pile of indiscriminate cloth shreds and microglass. There's a fierce smile on the District One Female's face. She knows this like breathing.
Reverie crushes the beads underneath her heel with one surefire step forward; she's already in position for her next move. Her hands fly to two more knives hanging at her belt, sending them across the room toward one unlucky tribute lingering in the visual simulation. The blades pin both of the tribute's hands into an invisible wall — it opens its vacuous mouth to scream, only to be silenced by the intrusion of another knife in the soft space between collarbone and throat.
The simulated tribute disintegrates, and Reverie requests four opponents.
Lisung nods at one of her Junior Gamemakers, and he deploys the trainers. In the twenty seconds it takes for them to arrive, Reverie has disappeared into the shadows of the Training Center.
The trainers step gingerly through the space, on high-alert for their opponent. They don't have to look for very long; an arrow whistles through the air, landing with a deafening thwack against one trainer's helmet. The screen on their chest flashes red, indicating their elimination. Another arrow flies further off, landing on the wall right beside a different trainer. Their head jerks in the direction of the arrow, but Reverie is already gone.
In thirty seconds, one trainer has been dispatched and three remain. The Training Center resumes its eerie silence, with the tribute nowhere to be seen. Two trainers stick closely together, likely under the impression that the other's company might keep them safe. But Kishor watches as the District One Female stalks ever so slowly behind them.
She winks at the window before hooking her bow over one's helmet from behind, dragging and violently bashing the trainers into each other.
"Surprise," she coos, before driving her knife down into both of the trainers' screens. Two suits go scarlet.
With one trainer and one tribute left, the numbers are even. But as Reverie prowls through the Training Center like a reclaimed enclosure, it's abundantly clear who the predator and who the prey really are.
When Reverie finds the last trainer, she pounces without hesitation. She jumps them from behind, trying to topple them over. The trainer hrashes wildly, attempting to throw the girl off, but she's persistent and ruthless. She manages to lock the trainer's arm from behind, dagger held at a wicked angle against their throat.
The buzzer goes off, casting the room in red. Your private session is now over, the intercom drones overhead. Please escort yourself from the facility.
Reverie locks eyes with the Gamemakers, smiling. She takes her sweet time, dragging her knife sharply across the trainer's armored neck before letting it clatter to the floor.
.🃞.
𝐈𝐈𝐈. 𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐆𝐄𝐀𝐍𝐓 𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐈𝐂𝐔𝐒
Sergeant demonstrates an impressive versatility with weapons, not uncommon from a District Two tribute. He operates each one as if it were an extension of himself. He starts off with a sword, slashing dummies with brutal efficiency. There's a little more force in each of Sergeant's strikes than Kieran had with his, a little extra energy. Kishor isn't sure how it reflects on Sergeant in the way of energy conservation, but it certainly makes for an exciting show.
Sweat beads on the District Two Male's skin. A roguish grin blooms across his face as he casts his sword aside for a bow and arrow, firing several headshots into the virtual tributes from across the Training Center. He maneuvers his body quickly to accommodate for tricky angles, surprisingly nimble. At one point, he even climbs atop one of the weight station's structures in order to give himself a better vantage point for his arrows.
He requests two trainers. Sergeant hops behind the weapons rack and smoothly swings out an axe as soon as the sliding doors open, revealing two heavily-armored trainers. Sergeant doesn't shy away from the threat; boldly, he advances toward the closer one with the most peculiar smirk on his face. As soon as Sergeant comes within range the trainer swings, only for the tribute to suddenly drop — the trainer's fists meet empty air, and then come crashing against the floor as Sergeant uses his shoulder to ram into them from behind. The trainer clatters to the floor loudly, stunned by the tribute's barrelling force — they blink, and Sergeant is looming over their face with an axe.
The axehead catches light as Sergeant raises his arms, prepared to slam down. Before he can drive it home, the other trainer tackles him from the side.
Kishor grimaces as Sergeant hits the floor. Before she can even say anything, Lisung presses a finger to her lips.
The force of the impact takes the other trainer down with Sergeant. The tribute had the good sense to strongarm the axe at a diagonal point, blade far away from his face. Now, he jams it against the helmet of his attacker with shuddering force, using their surprise to roll out from underneath them. With one hand, the trainer clutches their head in pain; with the other, they attempt to prop themself up, struggling. Sergeant issues a swift kick to their wrist, snickering as their upper half falls back against the ground. With the head of his axe, he lands a blow that surely would've shattered a person's spine in any other context.
The first trainer hauls themself to their feet, now equipped with a weapon. Sergeant rolls his shoulders, expression caught between a wince and a laugh. "That armor's harder than it looks, huh?"
The trainer obviously doesn't deign this with a response. Sergeant takes one last second to fix his grip on the axe before he bolts straight toward the remaining trainer.
.🂲.
𝐈𝐕. 𝐂𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐀 𝐂𝐎𝐒𝐌𝐎𝐒
Cassia's sword makes a blinding arc toward the trainer. Had they not swerved at the last second, their helmet might've been lopped clean off their head.
The blunder does not deter the District Two Female. In fact, it seems to only invigorate her. The trainer attempts to jab at her with their own sword, but Cassia steps out of the way. She's quick on her feet, movements solid and firm. Her body is used to navigating the song of blades; it appears as if every dodge comes about as if by pure instinct, and she remains stable with near constant contact with the ground.
Five minutes into the battle and Cassia is visibly doing much better than her opponent. The trainer lags behind just slightly; still on the offensive, but losing steam quickly. Kishor suspects they won't be able to withhold against Cassia's next flurry of blows.
The pattern is easy to deduce; Cassia attacks, and she attacks ferociously until she abruptly steps back to recharge. Her strategy is to whittle her opponent down until they're easy to defeat, and it appears she has no problem waiting however long it takes.
Cassia advances, unrelenting. Somehow with her smaller stature, she manages to box her opponent in open space, overpowering the trainer with a shocking amount of force. Cassia's onslaught is singleminded, but incredibly effective compared against her opponent. There's no room or opportunity to retreat; every ounce of concentration has to be dedicated to keeping Cassia's attacks at bay, or else they'll receive a fatal strike.
"She's good," Kishor murmurs, "albeit lacking in presentation."
Lisung nods slightly. "Straightforward. Predictable." She finishes whatever she's writing. "It works, though."
Just as quickly as they began, Cassia's attacks cease, and she darts backward with a bounce in her step. The trainer's body heaves, wobbling slightly before collapsing to the ground, fully spent.
.🂦.
𝐕. 𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐀𝐌𝐒𝐄𝐋
It's only a matter of minutes before Orion appears to get bored with his own half-hearted knife fighting. He switches over to a medical station, displaying his basic health and wound care knowledge. The District Three Male does not move, even a full minute after the screen flashes with his satisfactory test results.
Lisung adjusts her earpiece. Her voice, level and velvety, seeps through the loudspeakers. "Please proceed, Amsel."
Orion looks up, pausing for a long moment before responding. "Is that something any of you really want?" he asks, no trace of emotion in his voice. "Truthfully, I don't have much else to show."
"Nothing at all?" Lisung inquires.
Orion pauses before responding. "Nothing to show," he confirms, "but perhaps something to tell."
Kishor watches as Lisung crosses her arms. "What are you suggesting?"
Orion hums. "It's a rather unorthodox exchange, but… I have information that may be of use to you. And you have an authority that would definitely be of use to me." He stares at the window, inquiring. "We might be able to help each other."
Something flickers in Lisung's eyes. "Proceed."
.🂣.
𝐕𝐈. 𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐅𝐅𝐀 𝐙𝐎𝐑𝐏
"Shaffa's already popular with the Capitol, as you can expect," Kishor muses, watching the District Three Female give a wave toward their general direction. "She's the daughter of a celebrity, after all — it's causing quite a stir."
"Lucky Neffilus," Lisung murmurs in response. Kishor only smiles, not attempting to correct her.
Shaffa weaves through large station equipment, vanishing in one place and reappearing in another. As she moves, Kishor notices different objects start to go missing; first, a knife from the floor, then a bundle of sticks — at one point, Kishor realizes the starkly empty space where a training dummy used to be positioned. It seemed that Shaffa somehow managed to obscure an entire dummy, evading detection. It's crafty work; by the end of her session, one side of the training room is noticeably barren, and the other decorated with new objects ranging small to large in size. Kishor can't recall how half of the items got there.
Lisung hums, tapping her pen against her chin. Her eyes are still fixed on the tribute, but her gaze feels further off. Kishor knows that she's thinking about what Shaffa Zorp will get up to in her playground.
.🃄.
𝐕𝐈𝐈. 𝐊𝐀𝐈 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐀
Kishor has no idea what to do with the animalistic scene before her. By the looks of it, neither do the other Gamemakers. Most of their expressions are locked in blank, horrified, or disgusted stares. At least she had the decorum to not display her distaste so transparently.
As always, Lisung has sentences upon sentences to write upon the matter. Kishor can't fathom what the woman might be detailing on that sleek notepad of hers. Perhaps it's something along the lines of 'upon entry, attempted to retch something from his throat, to no avail. In his fury, tore apart a dummy with his bare hands. Proceeded to hack at the beads that spilled with a spear. Annihilated two more dummies and skewered each corpse onto his spear like some sort of monstrous kebab.'
Of course, Kishor doubts that Lisung would take notes in such an improper vernacular. But she supposes there's no real way to know; Lisung's cursive writing is so illegible that Kishor can't make heads or tails of it, even if she had a better visual than blippy sideways glances at the notepad. If Lisung hadn't gone into Gamemaking, by the looks of her handwriting she might've done well as a doctor.
Kishor turns her gaze back to Kai's… inspired performance. The District Four Male has found his way to the water purification station. He lets loose a howl as he repeatedly douses himself in buckets of water, wetting every surface within a five foot radius. Orion had been correct, it seems. Kai Thana appears very much enraged by something. Or someone.
"Should we stop him?" one of the interns asks, worry etched across her features.
Lisung only shakes her head in response. "Let him proceed. We'll get some of the Avoxes to mop and—"
A bucket slams into the wall, exploding on impact.
"—replace the equipment," Lisung finishes dryly. The intern nods hurriedly and takes her leave.
"Is it even safe to let him near the other tributes after this?" Kishor says
"We're keeping an eye on the situation," Lisung replies. "Hoping it won't have to come down to it, but we'll have units on standby."
"A risk."
"But of course. Preserving normalcy always comes at some sort of cost."
Before Kishor can respond, Kai's voice suddenly clamors through the speakers in the viewing room. "We'll all be underwater soon," he hisses before scurrying out with a loud clang. The sound of wet feet smacking against the floor echoes for a couple of seconds before the doors finally close.
It takes a moment before Kishor realizes Lisung is snickering. "Something funny?" she asks, amused.
Lisung's always been a bad actress; Kishor can see right through her poor attempt to conceal her smile. "Let me have my secrets," the woman protests.
.🂷.
𝐕𝐈𝐈𝐈. 𝐉𝐔𝐏𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐇𝐎𝐏𝐄
The other Gamemakers chatter excitedly at the front of the room, eager to watch the last Career's session before the drought ahead. The room falls into a hush, watching the District Four Female select her weapon of choice from the rack — she settles on a khopesh, brandishing the curved blade with a cool confidence.
She skewers through a row of dummies with a filthy viciousness, wholly unfazed by what must be thousands of pellets hitting the floor. Jupiter flings her khopesh skyward, catching it in midair before swinging the weapon into a nearby target. It doesn't hit bullseye, but sticks straight out, a couple inches deep at the very least. A wound like that would severely incapacitate a tribute, if not fatalize them outright.
From one of the stations, Jupiter swipes a roll of fighting tape and begins to wrap it around her fingers, her fist, her forearms. She whistles as she goes through the motions, familiar and easy.
Wordlessly, she beckons towards the large window for two trainers.
When Jupiter strikes, Kishor can see the power rippling underneath her skin. Her body is extremely mobile, dodging and weaving through the trainers' simultaneous punches. The District Four Female's braids whip fiercely behind her as if she were a two-tailed scorpion. She only provokes them at the start, a bright and rash grin scored on her face as she lets the trainers waste their energy. She dodges low at the last second, forcing the trainers to recover from their own constrained momentum. The silver metal of her piercings flash in the light almost tauntingly.
Kishor can pinpoint the exact moment Jupiter decides to take it seriously — not because it's particularly difficult, but because the girl from Four suddenly darts into a trainer's blindspot, wrenching off her shirt to use as a blindfold. She pulls the fabric against the trainer's helmet with one arm, using the other to put them into a chokehold.
Kishor smirks. "She fights dirty."
Lisung tsks, chiding her. "We call that resourcefulness."
Before the trainer in her arm goes down, Jupiter takes a couple of hits from the second one. She grimaces, soaking the impact before she gains the momentum to whirl, throwing the trainers into each other. She still has her weaponized shirt in hand, wielding it like a whip.
The unharmed trainer bolts toward her, the choked one staggering ways behind. Jupiter goes hand to hand with the first, suffering a few more light blows before sending them crashing to the ground with a well-placed elbow to the helmet. The second she sweeps without difficulty, already weakened by the previous scrimmage.
By the end of the session, she has both in a pile, topped off with a cheeky bow she fastened from rope in the last remaining seconds.
.🃛.
𝐈𝐗. 𝐅𝐈𝐎𝐘𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐈𝐓𝐀𝐌𝐎𝐑-𝐍𝐈𝐋𝐓𝐇
Shockingly, the other Gamemakers continue watching rapturously, even after the exit of Jupiter Fairhope. Fioynder won't allow otherwise.
From the very first second of the District Five Male's session, he begins reciting a speech. Evidently well-practiced, from his natural gesticulations and the way he hardly takes a breath between words. He blitzes through detailed accounts of his time in the Capitol, meticulously constructed plans, and the occasional reference to events in past Games. He spouts this while simultaneously demonstrating his skills at the plant recognition station, first aid, basic survival, a noisy but surprisingly well-multitasked affair.
"—and so that concludes my explanation of why I have decided to join the ranks of the Careers, despite it seeming like a historically bad play in past years," Fioynder chirps. "For this next part, I acknowledge the importance of breath conservation in physical activity, so I will refrain from speaking while I demonstrate my ability with the dagger. I believe my skills will speak for themselves."
Kishor watches as Fioynder clumsily throws a couple of knives into a target. The boy is clearly self-taught, but he wields the weapon with enough familiarity that it should put him at an advantage against non-Careers. He doesn't manage to make a bullseye, but all of his knives at least hit somewhere on the target, save for one that veers wildly off-course. At the very least, Fioynder appears pleased with his own display.
At the end of his session, he personally thanks the Gamemakers for their time. Fioynder still somehow has enough energy and enthusiasm to issue an sharp salute before exiting.
.🃃.
𝐗. 𝐊𝐄𝐄𝐒𝐇𝐀 𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐃𝐄
A full minute passes by in silence after the announcement for Keesha Cathode is made.
"Where is the tribute?" Lisung says into the receiver.
"She — she's not inside?" the person on the other end balks.
"No." The Head Gamemaker's voice is flat.
"I swear, I watched her walk inside, she couldn't have gone anywhere else—"
"Except nearly two minutes have passed, and Keesha Cathode is not—"
A dark smear traipses into view at the center of the room. Keesha seemingly materializes from nowhere, as if spawned from the shadows themselves. She leans carelessly against an exercise machine, a smirk pulled across her lips.
"Oh," she says. "Were you looking for me?"
Lisung coughs, composing herself. "Miss Cathode," she says sternly, "please make an effort to be timely."
The District Five Female only rolls her eyes before she disappears again. The next time Kishor sees her, she's atop a large metal shelf, tipping boxes over like a cat. Everywhere she goes, something either disappears or becomes displaced. Her skill in evasion and agility is undeniable, even with the cameras that scour the Training Center tirelessly. At some point she disappears, and quite a significant amount of time passes before the Gamemakers realize she's left the Training Center without a word.
"Oh, I like her," Kishor murmurs, grinning. If the rumors regarding the Five girl's alliance are true, it'd be an understatement to say that Kishor's intrigued.
Lisung rolls her eyes — it's subtle, but Kishor catches the slight movement. "I don't find her precociousness particularly charming," the Head Gamemaker drawls.
"You're upset because she caught you off-guard."
"Nonsense."
"Then you're upset because she's not taking you seriously?"
When Lisung doesn't respond, Kishor knows she has her answer.
.🃅.
𝐗𝐈. 𝐂𝐑𝐎𝐒𝐒𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐕𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐑𝐀
Crossland carries his session out dutifully, no fun, no flair — only business. There's not much to comment on regarding his results at the skill stations.
What catches the attention of the Gamemakers is his performance with weapons. He's not particularly precise, but against a tribute, he'd certainly be able to get the job done. With an axe, he hacks at a dummy until its chest lies bursted on the floor. Crossland hauls a one-fifty pound barbell through a row of dummies, succeeding in pummeling three in one strike.
Kishor believes very few tributes would be able to withstand being on the receiving end of Crossland's strength. The District Six Male is singleminded with his onslaught, and deceptively vigorous; Kishor can see in him what she sees in Lisung when the Head Gamemaker takes on a task.
"Could be quite the wildcard in the Arena," Lisung comments, writing something down.
Kishor snorts. "He'd have so much fun in there, surely."
.🃚.
𝐗𝐈𝐈. 𝐉𝐔𝐍𝐎 𝐑𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐈𝐍𝐄
The District Six Female is swift as she darts to and fro the Training Center. She hides in shady corners and reemerges in nearby places, though not with the skill or dexterity as previous tributes, namely Shaffa and Keesha.
When Juno's had enough of scurrying around, she boots up a few basic knowledge tests. The only sounds in the Training Center are her shallow breaths and the faint ding of the screen's buttons. She performs decently on the tests, with perhaps better than average results on a memory challenge. When Kishor peers over at Lisung's notepad, she can miraculously parse out the words attention to detail, underlined twice. She isn't quite sure why there was so much emphasis on it or even how Lisung came to that conclusion, but of course, this is the Head Gamemaker's area of expertise more than it was Kishor's.
Juno leaves the Training Center virtually the same as she found it — perhaps even a little bit tidier somehow.
.🂧.
𝐗𝐈𝐈𝐈. 𝐋𝐔𝐂𝐈𝐅𝐄𝐑 𝐁𝐈𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐏
The first thing the stocky District Seven Male does is bandage his arms. The second is ask for trainers.
Through the earpiece, Lisung asks him, "How many?"
He seems to think for a moment. Then, he holds up a hand, three fingers outstretched..
Lisung pauses for a beat, calculating something in her head. Then, she gestures toward an intern. "Ready three. Release them in intervals — a minute between each."
The intern nods and rushes off to carry out Lisung's instructions. As soon as the first trainer is out, Lucifer wastes no time. He rams straight into his opponent's body, knocking them fully off their feet. On the floor, the tribute kneels on the trainer's back, slamming his fists repeatedly against his helmet.
Forty-five seconds later, the doors open again to reveal fresh meat. The trainer attempts to catch Lucifer off guard, sprinting to his blindspot and striking with their leg. It makes impact across Lucifer's cheek, causing the boy's face to jerk sharply — then, just as quickly, he raises his hands to wrap around the trainer's leg, yanking it towards himself.
The trainer lands on their pelvis with an awful noise. Some of the Gamemakers wince. A few others appear excited. All are transfixed by the magnetic boy; built like a bull and doubly as vicious.
The Seven boy's session very easily becomes the bloodiest one since the Careers. As bloody as it can be, anyway, without any actual visible blood. But Kishor can't say for sure what injuries might be obscured by the trainers' helmets and armor. She watches as Lucifer cracks a trainer's helmet against a metal slab, so forcefully that Kishor feels her own skull reverberate with the impact.
It's breathtaking. No choreography could replicate this level of ferocity. The boy moves like he was engineered to kill.
Lucifer wipes the Center clean with three minutes left on the clock. His chest heaves, and his face is slack with exertion. The boy's knuckles are worn ragged under the fighting tape, angry and dripping red. "Is that all of them?" Lucifer asks, gritting his teeth.
"Yes," Lisung answers. "Let's cut this short. Thank you, Bishop."
Lucifer casts the trainers one last look before leaving, his fallen opponents still sprawled on the ground. One, still conscious, tries in vain to prop themself up. The others continue to lie, unmoving.
Lisung is furiously scribbling something on her notepad. Ink, sharp and inspired, flies across the page. "Kamil, could you get those trainers to emergency?" she says, without looking up. "Quickly, if you will."
.🃕.
𝐗𝐈𝐕. 𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐆 𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐑𝐊𝐒𝐎𝐍
Cleanup takes a little longer than anticipated, but soon enough, they're back to regularly scheduled programming.
Ginseng soars up the climbing wall, so quickly that she almost appears to be defying gravity. The District Seven Female is impressively mobile, comfortable hanging from precarious ledges by her elbows, knees, and feet.
The young girl knifes a couple dummies before requesting a trainer. As soon as they're out, she swiftly hides herself from view. Ten, twenty seconds pass before she pops back into frame on the other side of the trainer, laughing as if she's playing some sort of game. She scurries off again, goading the trainer into chasing her down. Ginseng seems to enjoy the art of wasting time and energy, as over the course of several minutes she continues provoking the trainer only to sprint off faster than they can keep up.
"I guess she's trying to show that she can outrun an attacker," Kishor says.
"Perhaps," Lisung says. "Or she's just messing around."
"Also entirely possible."
The trainer manages to get fairly close a couple times; in these instances, Ginseng brandishes her small knife, striking wildly. Her blade doesn't manage to make impact with the trainer at any point, but her attempts show at least a fierce willingness to follow through.
When the buzzer goes off, Ginseng skips out of the Training Center.
.🂹.
𝐗𝐕. 𝐃𝐄𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐎 𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄
"Is that it?" Kishor quips after ten minutes, eyes flickering from the idle District Eight Male to Lisung.
"About all we can expect from an outer-District," comes Lisung's reply. Kishor peers over at Lisung's notebook, and as always, is astonished by just how much the woman can pull out of her ass for what Kishor regards as a lackluster performance. She feels tired just looking at the Head Gamemaker's nightmarish cursive shorthand. There's a method to Lisung's madness, but Kishor is not privy to this side of it just yet.
She points at what she thinks is the least dense chunk of phrases on the page. "What does this say?"
"Adequate pattern recognition. Poor balance and combat skills, mechanical arm only a slight aid," Lisung reads.
Kishor recalls Delano's visible frustration with the prosthetic as he attempted projects at the craftwork station. "Is there something wrong with it?"
"I don't believe so. But I'll have someone look it over during evening preparations." Lisung flips to a fresh page. "Either way, his strengths lie elsewhere. You'll have fun with him during the interview."
Kishor's gaze turns back to Delano, who seems to be at a loss for what to do with a minute and thirty seconds left on the clock. It catches her off guard when Astarte suddenly unlatches his prosthetic off, waving it back and forth in the air.
"Hey!" Astarte shouts. He points at Lisung. "You're the one that gave me this, right?"
The Head Gamemaker answers within a few moments. "Correct, Astarte."
"Why'd you do that?"
Lisung cocks an eyebrow. "Was the reason not revealed to you upon proposal?"
"Sure, Minisa told me it was something about 'evening the playing field,'" Delano drawls, "but what's the real answer?"
"Are you truly looking for an honest answer?" Lisung inquires. "Or an answer you want to hear?"
"Honest," he replies after a beat. "For real."
"Sure," the Head Gamemaker smiles. "I'll indulge."
"Lisung?" Kishor asks. The woman ignores her.
"This is a trial run of sorts," she tells him. "Your mentor didn't phrase it dishonestly, but you're correct in believing it's not the full truth. Some tributes enter the Arena at a physical disadvantage. I've always wondered if we can fill in those blanks in more exciting ways."
"Oh, cool," Delano says, a slight ironic edge to his voice. "I'm your little cyborg guinea pig. That's cool."
"Does this answer unsatisfy you?"
"Not really," the tribute answers. "I just… I don't know."
The Head Gamemaker hums. The sound vibrates through the speakers, gentle and melodic. "Of course, you have full agency, Astarte. You can remove it anytime."
Delano hesitates, cradling the mechanical arm.
"I'd advise you to keep it, however." Lisung grins. "When the Capitol gives you a gift, you take it."
.🂳.
𝐗𝐕𝐈. 𝐃𝐎𝐓𝐓𝐈𝐄 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐋
"It appears she's allies with Ginseng," Lisung notes.
"And Yuly," another Gamemaker adds. "As well as Artan."
Kishor turns to the window, bemusedly watching the young girl. Even with a decent array of allies, she isn't sure how Dottie will manage to survive the first night if the best thing she has to show is fingerpainting.
The District Eight Female is the first to crack open the canister of camouflage paints, but she seems to have dedicated herself to a far grander cause than survival: abstract art. She smears colors on the wall in mismatched fragmentations, painting a vibrant scene that certainly exceeds Kishor's interpretative abilities.
Near the end of the fifteen minutes, Dottie abruptly halts, beaming with satisfaction. "Done," she exclaims, "done done done done done."
"What is this, Miss Dressel?" Lisung inquires.
"Where we'll all end up," the young girl answers instantly, completely unfazed by the random voice coming from the overhead speakers.
Lisung turns off her earpiece. "Looks like we have a prophet on our hands," the woman says dryly. "Is it supposed to be heaven, or…?"
Kishor only shrugs. But her eyes continue to scan the painting, strangely drawn to its glitzy, chromatic quality. "Whatever it is, you have to give her at least a point for style."
.🂩.
𝐗𝐕𝐈𝐈. 𝐄𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐈𝐎 𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐕𝐄𝐑
The District Nine Male is pale, visibly nervous as he slinks into the room. He blinks, appearing lost for a moment before stiffly walking toward the large shelf containing construction materials.
It's as if something clicks into place as soon as his hands touch the materials. They start to work on their own accord, the rest of Emilio's body following suit. At first, Kishor can't tell what's happening, but the project comes together in the last minutes. Emilio Carver has assembled some sort of mechanical trap from wood, wire and rope.
The boy dashes to the other side of the room to procure a dummy, held gingerly in his calloused hands. There's a pause — the slightest moment of hesitation before a hard look comes across the Nine boy's face.
He throws the dummy onto the ground, setting off the trap. A thick piece of rope lashes out, tightening around the dummy's abdomen. The trap holds the dummy steady as Emilio's shadow looms overhead, spear fast approaching.
Furiously, Emilio stabs, and stabs, and stabs. In the middle of a strike, he seems to come back into possession of himself, dropping his spear with a horrified expression on his face. But the dummy by his feet has already been destroyed beyond recognition, a hollowed puppet on the floor.
.🂽.
𝐗𝐕𝐈𝐈𝐈. 𝐖𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐀 𝐑𝐎𝐒𝐄 𝐏𝐄𝐀𝐊
Foraging, medicine, basic survival: about as standard of a session one could expect from an outer-District, especially toward the end of the lineup. By the sea of yawning faces and drumming fingers, Kishor can tell that many of the Gamemakers have grown tired, bored, antsy.
The District Nine Female is the second person to use the camouflage paints after Dottie. She uses them as intended; monochromatic greys against her skin to blend into her industrial surroundings, but her painting skills are still rather impressionistic.
Toward the end of her session, Wisteria picks up some sort of weapon at last. Stealthily, she creeps up behind a dummy. Her feet kiss the ground lightly as if she were dancing. At last, she glides a blade across the dummy's chest, too gently to make any sort of incision. Wisteria lets the knife clatter to the floor, and then takes her leave.
.🂥.
𝐗𝐈𝐗. 𝐀𝐒𝐀𝐇𝐄𝐋 𝐂𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐒
The District Ten Male gets to work immediately. It clearly bothers him to be observed so closely but he proceeds anyway, stiff yet determined. He completes the basic survival station, builds a decent trap, showcases his strength by lifting weights. He's resourceful and physically fit, but Kishor still hopes for something a little more interesting from this year's little outer-District volunteer.
She gets her wish a couple of minutes later. Asahel turns to the large window, coughing lightly. "Could I get a trainer, missus Head Gamemaker?"
Lisung grants his request. Within moments, another person joins Asahel in the room. Asahel clenches his hands into fists, steeling himself.
Like Ginseng, Asahel spends more energy on avoiding his opponent's strikes than attacking himself. But he holds his ground, enduring the close proximity without retreating for longer than most would be able to.
It's a couple of minutes of this before Asahel finally strikes back, fist making impact with the trainer's abdomen. The sudden attack catches the trainer off-guard, as they'd likely gotten used to fighting against a purely defensive Asahel. Asahel lands another punch, and another, before being thrown against the ground with a hard thud.
The trainer approaches Asahel's fallen form, eager to finish up. But they don't see Asahel's foot as it comes swinging half a foot above the ground, forcefully toppling over the trainer. They land on top of the tribute and scramble to get back to their feet, but the scratchy press of something around their throat stops them in their tracks.
Asahel's fists are held above the trainer, one end of rope gripped tightly in each. He's pulled it flush around his opponent's throat — not enough to asphyxiate, but more than enough to have the upperhand in this precarious position. Even from underneath, Asahel would be able to strangle his opponent faster than they could dispatch him.
The boy's skin is slick with sweat. His eyes flicker from the frozen trainer to the window, waiting for further direction.
With only thirty seconds left on the timer, Lisung dismisses him. The rope goes slack immediately, dropping to the ground. The District Ten Male looks relieved for it to be over, but something tells Kishor he would've finished the job if no one told him to stop.
.🂭.
𝐗𝐗. 𝐅𝐀𝐋𝐎 𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐑𝐔𝐒
It's nearly clockwork at this point; the Gamemakers' eyes glaze over as they watch Falo Tarandrus go from plant identification to knots to basic survival. Though, like her partner, the District Ten Female hikes up her sleeves and starts to lift sandbags. She manages rather well, her deceptively lean stature supporting more weight than Kishor would've expected.
But it's what Falo does after that piques Kishor's interest. She makes a beeline toward the hunting station and procures a skinning knife, the blade wide and crude. She opens a very specific drawer nearby, searching for something. But whatever it is doesn't appear to be there; her brows scrunch, perplexed, before she attempts the other drawers.
"What's she looking for?" Kishor asks.
"The animal models," Lisung replies smoothly.
Kishor's eyes narrow, amused. "And where did you put them?"
Lisung doesn't respond immediately. Another minute of searching passes until Falo finally musters the resolve to address the Gamemakers. She clears her throat, wincing at the suddenness of the sound. "Might I ask where the musculature models of the animals are kept?" Falo says, echoing Kishor's same question."
Lisung taps her earpiece. "It appears our staff has neglected to replace them," she says, and Kishor swears she can hear the slight trace of a smile behind her voice. "You'll have to forgive us, Miss Tarandrus. But I trust you will be able to make do with other materials in our arsenal."
A light flashes above another station, previously only visited by Orion: the anatomy station. Beside a labeled chart stands a muscular model of the human body, red and glossy.
The District Ten Female swallows deeply, fingers clenching around the skinning knife. But, shakily, she nods.
.🂻.
𝐗𝐗𝐈. 𝐘𝐔𝐋𝐘 𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐋
With his cooking and scavenging skills, the District Eleven tribute is skilled enough to pass a home economics class with flying colors. However, his performance is rather light in terms of a private session, with no real display of physical strength. The only time Yuly picks up any sort of weapon is to slice through food or fabric materials, which leaves little to the Gamemaker imagination.
However, what interests Kishor most is his skill with rope-tying. The tribute is confident, clearly experienced. He's both quick and thorough, producing several ornate yet secure-looking knots that Kishor doubts come from any of the manuals at the Training Center.
"Are you still including that room you told me about?" Kishor asks.
Lisung clears her throat. "There are many rooms, Mahadio."
"But you know which one I'm talking about."
"I do," Lisung sighs.
.🃈.
𝐗𝐗𝐈𝐈. 𝐉𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐆𝐀𝐍
The District Eleven Female doesn't stall for a second. She goes from station to station like she's on a mission, methodical and determined. The stations are nothing out of the ordinary; plant identification, basic survival, fire-setting.
The last station she visits is shelter construction. She locates necessary materials quickly, and demonstrates clear familiarity and handiness with the tools at her disposal. She builds a crude shelter in a matter of minutes; it's built well-enough to imply that she'd be able to make something quite secure with more time and better materials.
"Quite a nice little demonstration from our youngest," Lisung murmurs. Kishor is inclined to agree.
.🂵.
𝐗𝐗𝐈𝐈𝐈. 𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐀𝐍 𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐅𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐒
The Twelve Male stoops into a low bow before commencing his session.
Some of the Gamemakers laugh. Kishor suspects it's more to do with delirious boredom than actual amusement. Truthfully, she's about to nod off herself. God bless Panem that Artan and the District Twelve Female were the only two left.
Beside her, Lisung looks just as concentrated as she had been at the start of these — dear god, six hours. This is why Head Gamemaker is her gig and not Kishor's.
Artan does a few plant identification and memory stations with mediocre results. He also attempts to use a slingshot against a still target, even worse than mediocre this time.
Words can't express how thankful she is for the buzzer that comes soon after.
.🃒.
𝐗𝐗𝐈𝐕. 𝐌𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐒 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐎𝐋𝐃
As far as everyone besides Lisung is concerned, private sessions are over.
Beside her, Lisung looks just as studious as she had been at the start of these — dear god, six hours. It's truly impressive how interested the woman can appear to be at the most mundane displays, like a malnourished girl attempting to handle a weapon half her size. Her dedication was near frightening.
Really, Kishor couldn't have chosen better. Lisung was going to make an incredible Head Gamemaker for years, for decades to come. Kishor continues observing her, quite self-indulgently.
A loud clatter sounds from the Training Center, before the District Twelve girl erupts into a wail. Somehow, she's gotten her elbow perplexingly stuck through a bow and arrow, and appears unable to wrench it out. A mess of arrows litter the floor underneath her feet. Lisung looks at the scene for a second, two, before giving the signal for the end of private sessions and sending an Avox to escort Mavis Marigold to medical help.
The Gamemakers disperse, taking their much needed break before the roundtable meeting. Kishor feels someone place their hand on her shoulder.
"You have to get going, don't you?" Lisung says.
"I do. But I have some thoughts," Kishor says. "Before I say any of this, keep in mind I'm not so much concerned with technical scores as I am with twisting perception."
The Head Gamemaker nods, intently hanging on Kishor's every word. She must admit, it's rather flattering to be the object of the woman's attention. But that has nothing to do with what Kishor wants to say, and time is of the essence.
"You already know where to put Reverie. Play around with those Career boys, though — the competent ones. Whether or not you think Orion deserved the score he asked for, give it to him anyway. I think it'll make things far more interesting. Lucifer — I don't need to say anything. And drop Falo by one, two. She'll think it's punishment for vomiting, and it'll make that boy of hers all the more protective."
"Weaving quite a narrative, Miss Mahadio. It's audacious."
"Are you worried it'll hurt sponsors?" Kishor challenges.
"All a part of the risk," Lisung fires back, beautifully self-assured.
Kishor smirks. "Are we still on for tonight?"
"Of course," Lisung says. "Tonight or never again."
The woman's dark, keen eyes settle on Kishor, so elegant and focused. But Kishor can see that they're streaked with exhaustion, too, albeit well-hidden. Being tired doesn't make Lisung any less sharp. Kishor's glad the Head Gamemaker knows never to show that side of herself, never to reveal a weakness. Lisung will do well for herself as long as she can present herself as a vessel, a machine, the same way Kishor will be untouchable for as long as she stays the Capitol's perfect mannequin.
It's why she doesn't bother with telling the woman to get more rest. It's why she'll say nothing as the Head Gamemaker pushes herself beyond healthy human limits. Lisung knows just as well as Kishor does the cost of being better than good, better than great: no less than head, heart, and soul to be the best.
She hopes the Capitol will see it, what Kishor sees in Lisung. Someone whose mind works in gorgeous, frightening ways. Someone who can arrogantly, fearlessly shatter convention; someone who won't shy away from raw, ugly, awful.
Kishor can't help but smile, knowing what she knows. What a debut for Lisung Jarstova.
"You're going to piss off a lot of people with this," she whispers.
Lisung just grins. "I think they'll forgive me."
a/n: hey stranger! double april uploads didn't pan out and neither did may. or june. scratches head. my new goal is last pregames chapter on august 30th! it's kind of a tight stretch that's what she said but just trust.
wanted to post today (july 7th) very specifically because in d&d canon, it's the date of the tributes' last day in the capitol. aka training day 3, private sessions, and everything beyond! funnily enough it's also falo's birthday. hope she's enjoying herself! also this is a part of a double upload with laney! i'm sure everything is a-ok in tfm land Ha Ha Ha
don't ask me what kishor's full job description entails, just accept the events ok. and also a huge thank you to erik for betaing this chapter! i was in a rush to post this chapter and ve pulled thru :prayer_hands: if today's chapter is ass ayo that's mb you'll have to forgive me
luck of the draw: the outcome of chance, and something that cannot be controlled.
no qotd today. vote on the bloodbath prediction poll, top of my bio! you can pick up to six tributes ;)
deuces,
bonkies