you can always bleed a little more.

Thought I was raised to be better, tried to fake better /
hope the skin heals where the pain enters.

NO COMPLAINTS / NOAH KAHAN

﹙ chapter six, act one ﹚

training centre, the capitol.
july, 70 att.

                    FOR THE SECOND TIME, MARA BEGINS TO FORGET SHE'S FIGHTING IN THE HUNGER GAMES. There's a few, rare moments where it almost seems like this is a mildly pleasant dream; but it can't be further from the truth. The final training day is one of the best she's had in a while ─── she's not hungry, she's smiling, and she blissfully forgets her worries for a few hours. And, for the second time, she's brought hurtling down to reality by the inevitable marching of time, bringing her closer to the arena.

                    Today, each tribute will be individually assessed. Judged by the Gamemakers on a skill of their choice, they'll be graded on a system of one to twelve; ones are dismal and twelves incredible, and both are rare. Most fall somewhere in between.

                    She sits in a small room next to the gymnasium, waiting. All other tributes are there, too, arranged in neat lines. Nervous silence drags on, even from the Careers, who know this is a pivotal moment; even they have to play the game. It unsettles something in the pit of her stomach. Mara finds herself waiting on the cool, automated voice bringing each tribute forth. She picks at her nails, deep discomfort etched into her bones. It's ordered by district and sex ─── as the female from Eleven, she'll be third from last. It's agonising, maddening; some tributes stay in there for twenty minutes, some only have to wait twenty more seconds before being called. None return.

                    Mara watches those who remain as they're slowly whittled down, imagining them locked in an arena with her ─── who dies, who survives, and who kills? It's fairly easy to guess who will die: the small, weak ones; the children. This is no place for innocence and youth. The killers are the ones she avoids: the Careers, Dakota. Then, there are ones she can picture surviving for a while, making it through the days until they're eventually hunted down ─── she's one of them. She pays particular attention to them, to Landen and Morgan from Four, Amira, Roland from Eight and Deacon from Ten. Their weaknesses are evident; resolve, stamina, partially blind in one eye, and she wonders if she and Avens should go alone.

                    But why would he want her as an ally? And which group does he fall into; survivor or killer, because grace with a blade should not come as easily as it does to him. Who wouldn't give everything to go home to Willow and Aster?

                    The youngest victor won five years ago; Finnick Odair, at age fourteen ─── and Mara knows that all too well.

                    Really, all she can do is guess.

                    The voice echoes from the speakers built into the wall, for the twenty-second time, the syllables equal and monotonous. "Mara Cayden, report for individual assessment."

                    She realises she hadn't noticed Avens leaving ─── even now, she only thinks of herself.

                    She straightens her posture, runs a hand over her hair, and strides into the gymnasium with as much confidence as she can muster. Her gaze focuses on the Gamemakers, all fifteen of them, dining together, sectioned off from the rest of the hall. They're bored ─── too many demonstrations, too much wine, too long spent away from home. Dressed similarly, in suits of ranging colours, they seem more normal than what she's seen. Their boredom is identical, talking and laughing heartily among themselves as she enters.

                    She clears her throat, making sure her voice doesn't waver. "Mara Cayden, reporting for individual assessment."

                    Either they don't hear her, or they simply don't care enough to look. All attention remains on the banquet before them, and not the tribute they're supposed to be grading. Irritated, she looks to the weapons stand, which is laden with blades of all sorts; heaped on; someone hasn't bothered to put their weapons back neatly. She huffs, and begins to dig through the pile until she finds a knife. Fingers clasping around the handle, she holds it up in full view of the Gamemakers, checking its balance.

                    There's a target range, bulls-eyes and human silhouettes, littered with the scars from previous demonstrations, but that's too easy, too basic. And then, she sees the dummy used for knife practise ─── better, but it's still been done before. She sets herself ten metres away from the dummy, shoulders squared, but something's wrong. They're still laughing loudly ─── a particularly loud snort echoes around the room, and she loses her concentration. The knife sails an inch too far to the left.

                    The laughs become louder; what little attention she held is now lost.

                    Her cheeks burn in shame. She's better than this, and had a chance to prove it, but it's wasted now. Still, she heads back to the stand and finds other knives, throwing them again and again from different angles, distances, speeds. Mara hits the target every time, leaving the dummy's head almost ripped open. It's pretty decent knife-throwing, appreciated by a light, scattered applause.

                    But it's not enough, because she is still upstaged by the food.

                    Suddenly, she's angry, insides burning; her life is on the line, and they don't have the decency to even look. Heart pounding, blood rushing loudly in her ears, she stalks over to the ruined dummy and holds it up high in the air with one hand, its fabric feet dangling above the ground. Knife in hand, she aggressively slashes its neck, with more force than needed. After the first few strikes, the body falls away, crumpling; she lifts the head high in the air. It spews fabric insides over her arms; she can almost imagine the blood from the wound staining her skin.

                    She has their attention now.

                    Throwing the faceless head up and forwards, she waits for the moment when it will line up perfectly. If this doesn't work, then she'll resign herself to a low score. Maybe that's what Chaff would've wanted. Watching the trajectory, she throws the knife a moment before it falls right before her. The knife sails through the air and spears the falling head right through where the eye would've been. The haemorrhage of fabric and steel lands before their feet, rolling around, and coming to a stop.

                    Shame, she was aiming for the table.

                    There's nothing but stunned silence among them for a long, long moment of raised brows and looks of mild disgust. It's broken by the same bald Gamemaker who laughed the loudest just minutes ago. "You are excused, Miss . . ."

                    "Cayden." Her words are as sharp as her knives, glare as cold as ice. He shifts in his seat uncomfortably. She says no words of thanks and leaves the room through another door, but the same way she came in ─── full of false bravado.

                    The head is still there when the evaluations are over, untouched.

                    The reactions of her mentors vary greatly. Once she's reached their floor and sits with them in the lounge, she recounts her story with great amusement; even if dark little voices in her head tell her she's gone too far. There's a moment of silence after she finishes, and Chaff bursts into loud, drunken laughter. His deep voice echoes around the room, highlighted by Antonia's disgusted silence ─── at least someone's pleased.

                    "Finally!" He roars, hitting the sofa with his fist. "What were their faces like!"

                    "Chaff!"

                    "Pretty shocked," Mara answers, a small part of her basking in the newfound respect. A small smile crosses her face as their expressions replay in her mind. "There was a thin, spotty one, and I swear his eyebrows vanished into his hair."

                    Antonia is truly disgusted by her behaviour. She cuts across their laughter. "You cannot treat the Gamemakers like that! For one, it's rude, and they can make you pay for that ─── in the arena!"

                    "You do realise," Avens says, leaning back, a lopsided grin on his face. "All she did was prove she's not a wimp. Nobody even got hurt. Mar, you make me look bad."

                    Despite herself, she grins at the nickname from when they were kids. "Didn't have to do much for that. What'd you do for them in there?"

                    "Some machete work," he tells them. "Not much more. I think it went well."

                    Antonia shakes her head, muttering under her breath. She had such hopes for this year's crop ─── or at least, one of them ─── and she disappoints by behaving like a child and taking the Hunger Games lightly. If only she knew that neither of them do; the only comfort left is humour, and they can't afford to lose their minds thinking about what is to come.

                    And then, Seeder is concerned they will somehow punish her for that ─── Gamemakers, she says, memories flashing past her, are the proudest people she's ever met; something tells Mara she's speaking from experience.

                    "That was foolish of you." She quietly reprimands, which succeeds in shaming her for a moment, but then Avens turns on the television and she's distracted.

                    Though, she leans over and whispers: "Yeah, but what's done is done."

                    Seeder has no answer to that.

                    The screen flashes to a seal of Panem, an obnoxious fanfare blaring as it's replaced by an audio of applause. There's a short montage of footage around the Capitol, and then it settles inside a room, where a man sits at a table. He looks into the camera with what can only be years of experience, grinning widely, purple lips spread thinly over his teeth. Like her stylist Sierra, everything is purple ─── other than his skin, powdered white ─── and decorated with peacock feathers. Sitting with razor straight posture, he glances to the screen behind him, which bears the seal of Panem from moments ago.

                    The music fades out, and he begins. "Welcome!" He cries heartily, arms open to what Mara assumes to be a live audience behind the camera. "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to another exciting year of the Hunger Games!"

                    There's raucous cheering off-stage ─── the audience clearly loves him ─── and he pauses to soak it all in. "As you may already know, I am Claudius Templeman, your beloved commentator, and today, I have one of the greatest pleasures! I am honoured to announce the tribute scores!"

                    More applause. In their room, only Antonia claps eagerly, somewhat besotted, but stops after Chaff sends her a harsh glare.

                    "The numbers are all in, and let me tell you, it is going to be a year to remember!" Claudius says, violet eyebrows raised. "First, Julius Emerson of District One," Julius' headshot appears on the screen behind, the frozen image of his face grinning arrogantly. "Has a score of nine!"

                    "Desiree Silva, also from District One, has a score of ten! Octavian Gallohair, District Two, must've impressed his father with a score of ten! Yoselin Becke receives a nine!"

                    After that, the favouritism is blatant: no other tribute receives words of congratulations from Claudius, even the audience seem less enthusiastic ─── even when Dakota Garner receives a score of nine. Most players land somewhere between four and six.

                    "District Three ─── Mylee Vega, six. Hestia Torres, three."

                    Mara has seen Hestia around the training centre, and the girl's low score is no surprise. She looks barely ten, pale skin and pixie-cut hair, big doe eyes. She wouldn't tip the thirty kilo scale drenched in water.

                    Nothing sticks out, tributes mostly scoring sixes, including Amira, with the exception of Dakota Garner ( 9 ), Roland Bauer ( 7 ), and Deacon Tanner ( 8 ). Mara has identified the correct threats. Claudius finishes reading off Alaina Hurst's score, five, and raises his eyebrows at the next one. Avens' face flashes on the screen, and Claudius reads out: "Avens Fida, of District Eleven, has nine points."

                    Mara blinks rapidly, disbelieving, mouth falling open; mirrored by everyone else in the room, including Avens. "How?"

                    Then, it's back to normal. "And Mara Cayden with seven."

                    The scores from Twelve are read out ─── five and four, respectively ─── and he concludes with a very excited, "May the odds be ever in your favour!"

                    The television is turned off by Chaff, who holds the remote with a look of sheer shock. "So, that happened." He says, voice clearer than Mara's heard in a while.

                    "How?" She asks him, "How did you get a nine?"

                    Avens shrugs, face straight, but she knows he's secretly proud. "No need to sound so surprised. I'll get loads of sponsors now."

                    "Yes, yes, congratulations." Seeder says, a forced smile on her face, not looking anywhere near him. Her features are haunted.

                    "What?" he asks, "It's good, right?"

                    "It's a target on your back, that's for sure."

⭒ ➷ ⭒ ➹ ⭒ ➷ ⭒ ➹⭒

tribute tower, the capitol.
july, 70 att.

                    THE NEXT MORNING, MARA WAKES UP TO THE PREP TEAM HOVERING AROUND HER, LIKE A FLOCK OF ODDLY COLOURED BIRDS. She blinks hazy sleep from her eyes as they lead her back to the prep rooms. Lessons with Seeder and Chaff are over ─── this morning, the final day, belongs to Opal and the team. Maybe, she thinks sleepily, yawning, they'll make me so pretty no one will care what I say or do.

                    But, Mara will never quite be beautiful.

                    They work until midday, and she lets them, not resisting or complaining the way she wants to. By the end of it, she's a different person; her skin glows, her hair is glossy, her nails are perfectly shaped and a rich shade of green. About halfway through the horror, Caesarius begins to braid her hair and explain the process in painstaking detail. He calls them 'cornrows', which she thinks is strange since the pattern barely resembles cornrow farms. In Eleven, there's rarely time for hairstyles, leaving her hair a tangled mess most days. Sometimes it gets bad, but there are strictly no sharp tools allowed. However, once he's done, it looks good, and keeps strands out of her face.

                    "Can I keep them in for the arena?" She asks after examining herself in a mirror.

                    Tears come to his eyes, threatening to ruin his eyeliner. "Of course."

                    They erase all her features with a layer of makeup, complaining how their ideal products aren't dark enough for her skin. They work away, drawing her face back on about two shades paler. Big, dark eyes, full brown lips ( Sierra nearly cried as her trusted lipstick looked dreadful on her ). Extended lashes, a more contoured nose, sharper cheekbones.

                    She spots herself in the mirror, and hardly recognises the beautiful, harsh girl before her.

                    Then, Opal enters with her dress, ironed and neatly folded, a shade of sickening pastel green. "You don't like the colour? Well, it's all part of the plan."

                     Her disgust must be visible. "The plan?"

                    "You'll own the colour. They will associate you with it." She says, hazel eyes flashing warmly.

                    "Cool, I guess."

                    Opal tuts at her lack of enthusiasm. "Close your eyes."

                    She feels silk drape over her body as they slide it over her head, weighing almost nothing. Clinging onto Flavia as she steps into the heels, wobbling like a newborn deer, she can walk at least twenty paces without falling down ─── they're at least three inches shorter than Antonia's practice shoes. There's some adjustments, and then silence.

                    Again, in the full length mirror, the beautiful girl is stunning, but not her. Mara isn't beautiful. She doesn't walk with grace, smile naturally, love effortlessly. She doesn't have flawless skin or full cheeks ─── her hair is usually brushed at best. Curves and height are foreign to her. Her dress, oh the dress, is other-worldly, from a place where beauty is tenfold; where it shines like a jewel without any diamonds, where the colours fit together and look radiant, where it adds padding to make her more attractive, where the lace is fancy and the edges are a sage green.

                    For a while they stare at her, and why shouldn't they? She looks like a princess, at least; maybe even a queen.

                    "Opal," she whispers, breathless, a sliver of respect for the stylist. "It's more than perfect."

                    "You're welcome." She dismisses the team and has Mara move around, to get used to the fabric, before they head toward the stage. As they pass Emilee Weaver, a redhead with a long, sweeping dress ─── pretty, but she trips over ─── she whispers: "I made sure the skirt wasn't too long for that, what with the heels as well. You ready for the interview?"

                    Mara falls back to the ground with a crash. "No."

                    "I'm afraid I haven't got any advice. Public speaking . . . not my thing. But I'm sure you'll do great."

                    "Tell that to Antonia. She says I have the charisma of a mould stain."

                    Opal takes her icy hands into her warm ones; Mara resists the urge to pull away. "Whatever you do, act like you meant to do it. I'll be in the audience."

                    And just like that, she's gone. Mara half-wishes she were here to say a few more soothing words, but when have things ever gone her way? She straightens herself, smoothing out the non-existent creases, wipes her face blank, and meets with Avens on the elevator. As they shoot down towards the ground, she takes in his attire ─── a jet black suit with green accents, tailored to perfection. Apart, they look good; together, they're not identical but compliment each other.

                    The doors open, and waiting for them are their mentors. Antonia has fancied up for the occasion, outfit decorated with peacock feathers ─── she's almost certain that's because Claudius Templesmith was wearing them earlier ─── and compliments their clothes. Mara accepts them with as much grace as she can; Antonia's voice has never been so annoying, she has never been so on edge. Seeder and Chaff haven't done anything notable for the evening, but she does notice the lack of a liquor bottle by his side.

                    Looks like they're all trying a little.

                    They wait just off stage, in a small corridor that leads to the side of the stage. The audience is so loud that their noise penetrates the thin walls in an endless onslaught. So much so that she can barely hear Chaff giving her some final instructions.

                    "Remember," he says, waving his shortened left arm to the stage. "Don't freeze up. Cool and collected. You're mysterious."

                    Mara nods, wondering if she repeats that enough, it'll become true.

                    In the assessments, it was ordered by male, then female, however for the interviews, it's the opposite ─── which means she is going forth from last. Which means she gets to watch the excellence of the tributes before her and compare them to her meagre performance. They're all sat on elevated seating, beautiful and brilliant, above the Capitolites, like stars. But, they're not above the Gamemakers, who will extinguish them soon, or the richest, most prestigious guests ─── President Snow, for one. Most balconies in the surrounding area are filled with filming crew; the Capitolites stand in a crowd sectioned off before the stage, packed like multicoloured sardines in a can. It may be dark, but there is a glowing bubble of artificial light around the place ─── no darkness to hide in.

                    Caesar Flickerman has been doing interviews for almost forty years, and yet he doesn't look too far from his thirties; it must be the cosmetic surgeries they have in the Capitol. That, or his white makeup and hair styled upwards like an egg, which never changes other than in colour, dyed differently each year. Mercy always claims it's a wig ─── wig or not, it's a gaudy yellow eyesore, with lips and eyebrows to match.

                    The nerves are beginning to get to her, playing about her mind. It's not helped by Desiree, stunning with sharp features and a silver cocktail dress, swaggering onto the stage and winning the audience over in a heartbeat with her charms and confidence. Laughing, smiling, every question answered with grace. You'd think her stylist would go for the sexy angle, but with her lush hair and perfect body, she is too beautiful for even that. Certainly, she feels worse after seeing Octavian walk on, knowing he owns the place, knowing he'll win, never taking down his relaxed smirk. Even after seeing Dakota Garner, who radiates quiet, intense power, and answers with a maximum of three words.

                    Hestia, sweet and kind, dressed in a white ─── she's supposed to be an angel, with the halo around her head, but she could easily be a ghost. Amira, visibly scared and laughing nervously. Paola Acosta, District Seven, answering so shyly that even the mic cannot amplify it enough to hear her properly. Gianni Preston, from Nine, sly and witty. He engages in Caesar's banter like he would a brother, with a few underlying, cutting remarks that go right over Caesar's head. Deacon Tanner, playing the role of the humble tribute, talking about the honour; he doesn't wear it as well as the Careers.

                    Each of them receives three minutes to woo the crowd into sending them gifts; then the buzzer goes off, and they're out of the firing range.

                    She sits in a ladylike way, as Antonia taught her ─── straight back, hands on lap, neutral gaze ─── while they slip by, one by one. Her mouth dries as she is called on stage. "Moving on, welcoming Mara Cayden to the stage!"

                    It's embarrassing, but she freezes for a moment, head spinning. She can't go down there, where she'll face the rest of the world!

                    This isn't the time to look afraid; she can save that for later. Now, she must be noticeable but not too bright, attract sponsors but not spotlight. A hand shoves her forwards ─── she mentally shakes herself, and sits on the chair beside Caesar with as much grace as she can, which isn't much. Quite suddenly, she's facing hundreds and thousands of people, and she'd be lying if she said she wasn't nervous, at least. She paints a small smile on her face as Caesar introduces her to the crowd, but all she can think of is the attention focused on her, pinning her down, suffocating.

                    "Hello, Caesar." She says in her nicest voice as she shakes his hand. So far, so good.

                    "Hello, Mara. It is a delight to have you here. Welcome!" Caesar leans forward, gazing at her in a way that leaves her open to his questions ─── kind enough to carry on talking to. "Now, you were reaped for the Games. No volunteers." The audience makes a pitying noise, one that she hates. "How were you feeling when that happened?"

                    The words blend into sawdust once they reach her ears. What? It sounded like a long string of sounds, garbled and warped. She stares at him blankly. "Impending doom?" She asks after an uncomfortable silence. A giggle from the audience at her supposed wit. It's not funny ─── but for them, it is. It's a celebration, a holiday, a good sport; they've never gone hungry or had to worry about dying in the games. It's not real.

                    It's very real to her, and the thought brings her out of her stupor. "I've never felt quite like it. It was sobering to know that I hadn't escaped the games." There are a thousand words unsaid ─── I wanted to cry, I couldn't breathe, I've never felt fear that vivid, that soul crushing.

                    "Hmm." Caesar nods empathetically, pausing to allow her words to sink in. Perhaps he reads between the lines, seeing the true intent; nevertheless, he changes the subject. "Well, we've never felt quite like this, seeing your beautiful dress! It's stunning! What do you think of it?"

                    He's a smart man, who knows the value of what is said tonight. The weight it carries. For once, Mara can speak before all of Panem and no one can stop her. "We have nothing at all like it back home in Eleven. It's more than perfect. I love it."

                    In the crowd, Opal wears a smug grin, which she quickly straightens into a more humble expression as the cameras flash to her. Mara examines the way the light reflects from the silk, showing off the detailed embroidery. They must know what she's saying ─── look you have, and we don't. The audience makes appreciative noises, oohing and aahing.

                    "Beautiful, beautiful." Caesar says genuinely, but something behind his eyes knows what she's doing. He tries to avert her again─── "Now, you went into the Training Centre and came out with a score of seven. That's impressive, given that you've never had any prior experience with weapons."

                    ───but she'll find a way around it. She glances up to the Gamemakers on their separate balcony, and the corners of her mouth twitch upwards as she makes her next move. "Can I tell him?" She calls up to them.

                    One of them shouts out: "No!"

                    Turning back to Caesar, she lets out a breathy, fake laugh. Her insides churn, but she shrugs apologetically. "I guess you'll never know. Wouldn't want to ruin the entertainment, would we though?"

                    All he can do now is go along with it.

                    "You're killing us, please," he says, beckoning her to tell him. "Tell us!"

                    Mara smiles prettily as the buzzer goes off.

                    "Oh well," Caesar sighs, "we'll just have to watch. May the odds be ever in your favour, Mara Cayden."

                    They are not, and they never have been.

                    The applause continues for a moment until she is seated. And then, Avens walks on stage with a loping grace, and he's met with eager applause ─── a better greeting than most, almost rivalling the Careers. It's easy to see that they love him more than her; they hang onto every word, laugh at every joke about how excellent the food is and the many perils of Capitol toilets.

                    What's not easy to see is the small tells of discomfort ─── the way his brows draw together slightly, his jaw clenching, subtly rubbing his fingers together. But mostly, Mara's still in a daze from her own interview to pay any attention to his. They could easily make her pay for what she said, and why wouldn't they? She is nothing; she's a tribute.

                    By the time she comes back into focus, the banter has finished and they begin to speak more seriously.

                    "Now, Avens." Caesar says, like an old friend wanting to know a secret. "As I understand it, you received an impressive score of nine. How do you feel about that?"

                    He smiles warmly, realistically, humbly looking down. He pauses for just long enough to hook them. "To be honest with you, Caesar, I was surprised. I think they were generous with my scoring, but I am grateful."

                    "Oh, nonsense," he says encouragingly. "I'm sure you were brilliant. We're not allowed to find out exactly what happened, but it must've been worth a nine."

                    They talk some more, before Caesar asks if he has a girlfriend back home.

                    He hesitates, then gives an unconvincing response. "No, nothing like that."

                    "No? A lad like you, there must be somebody."

                    Avens shakes his head, and Mara knows he's telling the truth. He's had a few kisses here and there, but never a girlfriend. "It's me, my mum, and my sister. They're all I need." He then thinks, adding: "I had a best friend."

                    "Oh?" He asks, bringing forth sympathetic noises from the audience.

                    "It all changed between us at the reaping. It's not the same anymore between me or her."

                    How is it possible for words to cut straight to the bone, straight to the heart? Mara will never know.

                    "I'll tell you what. Win, and go home. She'll want to be your friend then." Caesar raises his eyebrows suggestively.

                    "That won't work for me." He says sadly, and the buzzer goes off. Thunderous applause accompanies him off the stage and long after he's sat down; a pensive expression on his face. One she can't read, and one she can't look away from. One of bound tragedies.

                    On goes Archer Ramos, whose interview is forgettable ─── and who would remember his, when the biggest hope of the poorest districts has just cleared the board, binding the audience in his blinding light? Who would remember Mikayla Undersee, pretty and sweet and scared in a simple blue dress? Not the Capitol, not everyone else, and not Mara.

                    Regrettably so. 

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 :
( 4,751 words! )
i originally wrote mara as bi but couldn't fit it
into the storyline ─── why would it matter at
the time, she's going to die ─── but to make
up for that, i did not hold back on some of the
descriptions of desiree🤭🤭it's not a priority
 anymore, and probably wouldn't be explored
 as much as it should be, so i chose to remove
it. know that it's because this isn't a romance
 book!! ( it just has some romantic subplots )

the interviews are always very interesting,, &
i don't know how caesar flickerman lives with
 himself after years and years of it ─── he has
 got to know it's their last day before the arena.
i think he'd  be very careful about what's said,,
 since the games are so cruel and public // quell
the uprising long before it starts. i'm thinking of
 something like 1984 ─── "narrow the range of
thought to make even thought crime literally
 impossible as there will be no words to express
 it." in short,, censorship at its worst.

a short note this time,, thank you all so much
for reading, voting and commenting !!