you can always bleed a little more.

I'll be someone else's god: 
Godhood is just like girlhood / 
a begging to be believed.

UP THE QUARTERLY STAIRCASE / KRISTIN CHANG

﹙ chapter seven, act one ﹚

tribute tower, the capitol.
july, 70 att.

                    SOMEONE SHOULD'VE WARNED AMIRA ABOUT THE STUPIDITY OF THE CAPITOL. Granted, she did have a prime example ─── he came down to smoky, dreary, smog-covered District Five every year, and chose who would be picked to die in a bloodbath, yet was never aware of what his job really entailed. And no, she was not enamoured with Messalla in the slightest. He was irritating with his long, flowery speeches, and oddly obsessed with camera angles. It was always clear he was rather airheaded, so she should've expected something similar from the rest of them.

                    The funny thing is, they think she's the stupid one.

                    She may be scared, but she's far from stupid and snivelling. Though she'll never admit it to anyone ─── least of all, herself ─── it was a nasty shock, like the time she got her finger caught in a socket, it blew, and it ached for days afterward. The first tears that slipped from her eyes were very real, her gaze locked onto Lucien's stricken face. Thankfully Kiran wasn't there, too young to witness the ceremony and her very public display. And it seems impossible, but she'd hoped, prayed, that someone would step forward in her place. Even if she hated pity, it would've been something gladly accepted when her name was called. They all knew she'd been the unlucky one before ─── again? Yes, since no one volunteered.

                    I deserve better.

                    The cruellest thing; it had all been going so well, things were starting to look up. She and Lucien had compiled their savings into a down payment for a hut on the edge of town ─── far from their families, far from the factories, and close enough to the woods for Kiran to be satisfied. She can envision it when she closes her eyes; they grow old as a new family and get the closest thing they'll ever have to a happy ending. Of course, they'll still work at the Coriolanus 9, and be the pariahs of that solar power plant, but that won't matter ─── they'll be together.

                    And then, she's reaped, and that golden future stolen away from beneath her. She will get it back, clinging onto every opportunity she gets.

                    And so, along with Micah Kemp, a volunteer ─── fate wants to rub salt in the wound ─── she's whisked onto the train. Then she eats herself sick; while she's never gone truly hungry, she's not exactly well fed either, she sobs like the tributes before her, the ones who died first in the bloodbath. The world will expect that sweet, scared girl to hold the cameras' attention for perhaps a moment ─── but then, somebody bigger and better will end her life, and the footage will move on, just like everyone else. Let them expect her to be merely another name.

                    But the tribute they see and Amira herself are not the same; she will play this game without knives and swords, but tears and secrets.

                    All it requires, she assures herself, is perfect execution, an audience blind to the truth, and a mask of her own making. She has all three. A feeling something like stability keeps her alive. She should be terrified, scared out of her wits like Paola Acosta or Emilee Weaver ─── but, armed with a dagger of wit, she does not fear her death. No, she's much more afraid of what she's prepared to do in the name of survival. It's either brilliant or terrible, and she can't tell which.

                    But it's best not to dwell on those things.

                    At least she's better than them───

                    ───compared to Messalla, the escort, olive skinned and slim, sporting several sets of earrings and dark hair hidden under a wig. Who cannot string together a sentence without using the words Capitol or honour. Who knows and can recite the whole bloody history of the Hunger Games, yet is so happy in his role as escort and so, so blind to the blood. At least she understands the punishment this is, rather than the supposed glory.

                    ───compared to her mentors; this year, it's Porter Tripp and Devan Vinir. Porter Tripp is bound to a head brace and wheelchair, forever slurring her speech every time she opens her mouth; the result of a spinal injury during her Games. She speaks little, opting to write on a notepad ─── even then, she has little advice to offer other than run. Devan Vinir, blonde and blue eyed much like herself; unlike her, unwilling to even think about weapons or strategy. He gets uneasy at the knives on the dining table, and mostly hides away in his compartment. They are, in short, pathetic excuses for victors; they're supposed to be strong and proud and stand straight, they should be living, clever, cunning. They should be like her.

                    ───compared to Micah Kemp, the male tribute from Five, whom Amira can never respect. He volunteered, bravely, stupidly taking another's place. She doesn't know who Newt Lamar is to him ─── family, friend, lover ─── but all the same, Micah took the death sentence for him. She would not do that for anyone, well, maybe Lucien, but she couldn't even if the situation arose. Perhaps his actions were driven by love, maybe lust for glory. She hasn't asked him, barely speaking to him, and doesn't intend on doing so.

                    ───and the stylists! She is sure that there has never been a more idiotic, infuriating trio than Imilia, Adrian, and Silvia; a flock of multi-coloured birds whose only skill is to make her look pretty. While they work, they jabber on about the latest gossip ─── how Filiana Shaftsman, whoever that is, slept with her sister's ex-husband ─── and their tinny voices drive her up the wall. They freak out at the lumps in her mascara, fawn over her dreadful parade outfit, and cannot stop talking. Everything Amira hates, hovering around her for hours. It makes it very hard for her to look and acts on the verge of tears, when all she really longs to do is drive a screw through their heads and sew their lips shut.

                    She's thought about it a lot, and that keeps her going through the prep sessions.

                    Amira played the interview well, portraying just the image she'd hoped she would. Thinking about it puts a satisfied smirk on her face, but only when no one is looking. A few tears, a message to her family, and the whole of Panem thinks she's an average wimp, another face in the crowd of dead tributes.

                    Almost all of Panem, that is. The only one who may know otherwise is that tribute, Mara Cayden. Something about her is intriguing; the way she picks up knives for the first time like an extension of herself, the way she plays verbal chess with Caesar Flickerman and wins, giving no real answers and all the most obvious, yet glossed over, jabs. She doesn't look anything special ─── smooth dark skin, hair naturally curled into ringlets, an average face for her district ─── but Amira's beginning to suspect that she's the perfect choice. Mara Cayden, who has seen her give the Careers the middle finger behind their back, and lets out a rare laugh at the sight. Who knows she's not stupid, or weak, and knows she can at least throw knives. Around whom she's slipped up too many times.

                    The night following the interviews should be dark and silent, yet it's lit up with a thousand lights from the parties below, filled with the shouts and clamour of excited citizens, defying nature itself ─── the whole world bends to suit the Capitol. They continue like that well into the early hours of the morning. She knows that because she's still awake, disgusted at the sight. They're joyous, blinded by the pretty lights and glitter, to the blood and gore and pain.

                    Her room is nice enough, lush, decked out with everything she'll ever need, decorated in shades of black, grey and brown ─── the artwork hung from the walls, the bedside tables either side of the huge bed, which could comfortably hold a whole family, the lace on the sheets. The smell of perfume lingers heavily in the air, suffocating her, sweet and strong and disgusting. She drowns in the smell while she fails to chase sleep.

                    She's buzzing with raw energy that won't simmer down; hours crawl by and still, her eyelids refuse to grow heavy. She wonders what the arena will be, what weapons the Cornucopia will be laden with. Twisting and turning restlessly, the thick duvet is pushed around until it winds its way to the button of the bed, at her feet. Soon enough, it gets to her ─── she slips out of bed, into the nearest clothes she finds, and out into the hallway. Treading lightly, she creeps down the hall, though alerting anyone won't be a problem: Micah snores loudly enough to mask any sound she makes.

                    The doors to the elevator are silent as they slide open, so unlike the unpleasant creaks and screeches back home whenever she opens anything on a hinge. She shoots up to the top floor, headed to the roof, careful not to bump into anything or knock it over. The rug hides her footsteps, but she's well aware they know she's here ─── unless the four cameras she's seen so far have a purpose other than surveillance. But, her longing for fresh air and clearing her head overpowers a few broken rules.

                    She's almost reached the door when she hears footsteps. Amira tenses, sucking in her breath, crouching down. Light, pattering, measured. Whoever this is, she thought they'd be more subtle. Shrinking back into the shadows, she watches in concealed shock as none other than Mara Cayden, of all people, walks by, checking over her shoulder. Her dark eyes catch Amira's almost instantly; she pauses, almost imperceptibly nodding upwards, to the roof, then brings her finger to her lips in a shushing gesture. She knows what she means. We are watched, but not up there.

                    The two walk in silence, side by side, reaching the roof with no problems. The door is locked, obviously, but a quick fiddle with two pins stolen from Imilia's endless supply springs the lock open.

                    As soon as they cross the threshold, Mara quirks a brow. "You always carry those?"

                    Amira chooses not to answer, reaching out with her hand ─── which proves the energy field enclosing the roof, as she expected. There's no telling how far a desperate tribute will go, and this prevents a dramatic and fatal escape. She's not looking for that though, only to fill her lungs with the cool night air. It's not clean, but it's better than the heavy smog in Five.

                    Everything here is better than Five, and how can she not be bitter about that?

                    Mara moves forward, her silhouette of neatly braided hair sitting on the very edge, leaning forward as if to taunt the void, inviting the fall that will never come, framed by the sparkling city lights. She clears her throat. "You could fall." She says, every part the concerned acquaintance, yet faux enough to be a light hearted joke.

                    Mara's gaze stays fixed at the nearest skyscraper ahead of them; the chasm below stretching hundreds of metres, dark and inky, broken by a few lone lights. The higher Capitol has turned off their lights, done partying for the night ─── the lower Capitol parties on. She sits there, and throws a hand out, only to wince as it's knocked back. "I thought so too, but as you proved, they would never let that happen. Besides, the party is for us." It's hard not to mistake the venom lacing her voice as she casts a glance to the land of skyscrapers before them.

                    She points across the lit void, and true to her word, Amira can hear the faint music ─── pop, Devan called it, more refined than electronic techno ─── if she strains her ears. Figures stumble in the streets, outnumbering the smaller, more sophisticated party directly ahead; men dressed in finely pressed suits, women adorned in gowns and headdresses, all different colours of the rainbow. Flamboyant, dazzling, hideous.

                    She sinks down on the tiles next to her. "Are they wearing costumes?" She asks, a distasteful frown on her face.

                    "Might as well be." Mara answers neutrally, still testing the waters, not quite making up her mind. For a while, more silence hangs between them until she glances at her, a certain kind of sorrow laced in her voice, delicate, fragile. "Who are you thinking about?"

                    Well, that's honourable; it slightly puts her to shame. While she's been absorbed with what the arena will be, her own well-being and returning home, Mara has only thought of being ripped away from her family. In a roundabout way, so has she, constantly thinking of Lucien and Kiran. "My family." She concedes after a pause. "But mostly about tomorrow. You?"

                    That much is true.

                    "My father. My grandmother. My friend." She swallows thickly, "They . . . mean a lot to me."

                    Amira pulls her knees closer to her chest, staring out to the void beyond. "Most of all, I'm thinking that I'll die."

                    That, however, is not so true.

                    She's considering: "That's not a good way to think."

                    "It's yours." She says as gently as she can. Mara stiffens, wrapping her arms around herself, and Amira knows she's struck a nerve. She's lost in melancholy thought, which isn't a good look on her; finally, she repeats: "That's not a good way to think."

                    Amira hums non-committedly. "You never know what could happen." In her silence, she continues, playing her first card. "But I know something that will. We won't kill each other at least, because we'll be allies."

                    Mara's head slowly turns to her, checking if she's heard correctly, dark eyes searching her intently. Barely disguised shock, and disgust, are written over her face. She frowns, turning things over in her mind. "You can't be sure?" She asks, voice barely above a whisper.

                    It's a hit or a miss now. "I'm positive."

                    "Well then," she says, voice growing louder, more assured. Her mind has been made up. "We know it won't end happily. It never will. But we'll steer clear of each other at the bloodbath, and we won't sabotage the other's supplies. I'll never see you, and you won't see me. One less person for us to worry about, yeah?"

                    Truthfully, she had hoped for more than that. "That's all you're willing to offer?"

                    "I don't do allies. I'm not here to make friends." Mara says. "Cause we're all going to die. If you want a proper ally, go to Avens. He's looking for someone, and you'd be great."

                    A careful smile curves at her lips; not too excited, not too indifferent. "Perfect. I'll think about it."

                    More silence between them, in which they begin to truly appreciate their mortality, their fragility, while in the safest, most secure location in the world. Because, here where the energy field keeps them imprisoned and the perfume chokes them, is where the games begin. Fear begins to creep up on Amira, unsettling her. She's out of her depth, she really is; this is her best shot at getting out of here. "I asked you, though, not him."

                    Mara slowly gets to her feet, not quite ready to leave, but not far from it either. "Take it or leave it. Know this ─── you don't want me as an enemy."

                    Amira maintains her smile, despite the anger curling at her insides ─── why can't she just agree? "Quite right. I'll make a better offer: allies until the last ten. Then we split."

                    She can see that Mara's tempted. "No." She says shortly after a long, long pause, searching for an excuse. "It's not worth it. You wouldn't make it that far."

                    "I am not dead weight!"

                    "I beg to differ." She drawls, mask welded back on. "With your sad act, you won't be able to do anything until it's too late. With your pretty face? Do you even know how to stay alive, or use a weapon, or go hungry for a little while?"

                    It seems her mask has been a little too convincing. Amira concedes retreat; another verbal chess victory tallied against Mara's name. "Fine. The first offer."

                    "Perfect."

                    The jab stings a little, not least because it's as fake as hers was. Thinking on it, she came across too certain, too confident ─── now something isn't quite adding up, and Mara, consciously or not, realises that. Internally, she curses at herself. "Deal?"

                    She's not convinced, but sighs. "Deal." She says, less snappy, then turns and leaves the roof.

                    Amira stays out a while longer, forcing herself to take deep breaths and enjoy the view of the city, before returning to her room. Micah still snores away ─── at least one of them is sleeping soundly; she spends the rest of the night slipping between feverish doses of sleep and imagining all the remarks she will make to Mara Cayden in the arena. Cutting, and most importantly, convincing. What she wants is an ally who has a shot at victory, but what she needs is to win.

                    So what if she's a little wicked?

⭒ ➷ ⭒ ➹ ⭒ ➷ ⭒ ➹⭒

tribute tower, the capitol.
july, 70 att.

                    TODAY IS THE DAY THAT EVERYONE HAS BEEN WAITING FOR. The one that has eagerly been counted down to in the Capitol, and dreaded up in the Districts. It's the day where tributes reach the end of their journey, where those pitied families huddle around the television, hoping, praying, begging, and ultimately weeping. Where the ground will soak in fresh blood as weapons are unsheathed for the first time in a year. It's been dreaded for the last three hundred and fifty-something, the day of nightmares, of dread, of pain. The Seventieth Annual Hunger Games will begin in a few hours. The day of death has arrived.

                    Around Panem, there are mixed feelings; in the Capitol and districts One and Two, and insatiable excitement festers in the air, fuelled by the privilege and parties, and the other young assassins curse at the missed opportunity. Perhaps Peacekeeping is the way to go, since they weren't lucky enough to be chosen to volunteer. In some of the districts ─── Four, Seven, Eight, Eleven ─── they know the competition is tough, but surely this year's crop stand a chance? Maybe they'll get the extra food and wealth that comes with victorhood, showering the district is a rare haven of plenty. And then, the rest, who know almost for sure what's coming, and resign themselves to another year of early deaths.

                    Amira is not one of the latter, even if the nerves begin to gnaw at her. Despite being confident in her plan, which she was before she opened her eyes this morning, she's edging towards it, just a little bit. She's ready to fight, to survive ─── at least, she thinks so.

                    Her stylist, Yasmina, a short and stupid woman who dressed her as a light bulb for the parade, is the one to wake her. Half-asleep, blonde leads blonde up to the roof before dawn, so early that not even the Avoxes are around. She's given a dressing gown to put on top of the clothes she forgot to take off last night, she'll prepare properly in the catacombs; they walk in sombre silence down empty corridors.

                    She briefly wonders where the other tributes are.

                    They reach the roof quickly, where the wind picks up to greet them, chilly for the start of summer. "The hovercraft will be here in a minute or two," Yasmina says nasally, picking at her nails. She's been bored the whole time ─── it's her tenth year doing this, and it's repetitive. Dress them up, they die; dress them up, they die; dress them up, they die. "We'll be dropped off in the Launch Room."

                    True to her word, it appears out of nowhere a minute later, silent, invisible; a ladder descends down from it. Yasmina gestures for her to climb it ─── she pulls herself up onto the first rung, and then the next, then the next. She doesn't worry about falling ─── something tells her she is being watched, and measurements are in place to stop her long before she falls. She moves shakily, shivering, and finds that it adds to her performance greatly, though not intentional.

                    Once up, she is sat down by a man in a white coat, balding and thin. He holds a wickedly sharp needle in one hand and holds down her forearm in the other. The syringe is filled with a silvery liquid; Amira cannot help but lean away.

                    "Hold still." He instructs, voice brittle. "It's just a tracker. Stay still and I'll be able to place it efficiently." He says matter-of-factly. He pushes up the sleeve of her dressing gown, revealing her pale, slender forearm; the needle hovers, locating the right place, before inserting it into her skin. She lets out a wince as the stab of pain nips at her, but settles into a dull ache; leaving only an odd, heavy feeling where the liquid now sits in her arm, where the Gamemakers now track her every move.

                    Wouldn't want to lose a tribute, would they?

                    After the tracker is placed, he disappears down the hallway, his role in the Games done for the year; in his place comes a red headed Avox, who wordlessly leads her into another room, where a table has been laden with most of the breakfasts Amira's ever seen. Five is one of the richer districts, that is true, but she no longer dines with her family ─── on the outskirts, something more substantial than boiled potatoes and canned meat is greatly appreciated. While she tucks into the food, Yasmina talks about the other tributes' outfits from last night, scoffing at One's constant choice of diamonds.

                    Amira half-listens, letting the words wash over her, almost glad for the distraction. Once she was reaped, on the day of travelling, the food was by far the most delicious she'd ever had; now, as the games begin, it's bland and tasteless ─── she may as well be eating the boiled potatoes she shoplifts and cooks with Lucien's help, for all she knows.

                    The journey continues like that for an hour at her best guess. She sits by the window, curled up, watching the greens and blues blur past her; dizzying if she looks out for too long. At one point, she knows she sees the sea, a huge navy expanse stretching as far as the horizon. Accompanying her from the outside for half of it are the birds, seemingly unfazed by the hovercraft, soaring and diving in the air alongside her.

                   But they are free, and she is not.

                   Then, shutters descend from the windows, blacking out the glass, blocking the sunlight from filtering in. They must be approaching the arena, she realises with an unfamiliar jolt. Fluorescent lights onboard switch on, stark and harsh; a poor replacement for the natural sun; she blinks the blue spots from her eyes, caused by the sudden intensity. Soon, the hovercraft lands smoothly, coming to a slow stop, not a single hitch or bump. She and Yasmina wait until the ladder lowers before climbing down into a tube, also blacked out, down to the catacombs below.

                    The same Avox from before, gaunt and haunted from tortures long passed, leads them to the Launch Room silently and quickly ( not even Yasmina knows where it is, much to her evident dismay; if there's one thing Amira's learnt about her from her incessant talking, it's her consuming desire to know everything ). He leads them through the twisting tunnels, seemingly knowing his way, head of red hair never turning to see if they're following ─── he's probably not allowed to. They continue like this until he stops at a large chamber, opening the door for them, bowing his head; he then returns the way he came, loose robes vanishing out of sight.

                     It's all dug from the ground, but at first glance, Amira can't tell. In Five, it's referred to as the Slaughterhouse, where the lambs are sent to die. She reassures herself, smoothing out the slight chips in her mask, by tucking a loose blonde curl behind her ear. She'll be the only tribute to ever use this room; next year, this arena will be a relic, and a new one built in a different location ─── this will be little more than a tourist destination during the winter months. That's when they're most bored, touring the catacombs, watching replays, even taking part in re-enactments of the best bits.

                    The food is excellent, they say.

                    She showers in lukewarm water and cleans her teeth; the facilities are almost identical to those on the train ─── minimalistic and bare, more like a prison than anything else. Her hair is damp and dark from the water, the curls hanging around her face. The clothes for the arena arrive down a chute in an unlabelled package; once more, Yasmina expresses her frustration at having no say in the outfit, since they are the same for every tribute.

                    "It'll look dreadful, I'm sure." She says, nose upturned, as she lays the clothes out on the sofa.

                    As if that can make it to the list of her troubles. She leaves Amira to her own devices, slipping into the underwear, the white short sleeve, the simple baggy trousers, dark like the jacket, which Yasmina determines as waterproof after quick inspection. The sandals, made of what feels like cork, already begin to rub at her feet, and she knows that blisters will be visiting her in a few days.

                    Yasmina holds back on giving her the jacket, focusing on the fabric, holding it close to her face. "Waterproof, that's for sure," she murmurs, frowning distastefully, "but not designed to trap heat. Expect rain, but also hot weather. And it's hideous."

                    How Amira wants to break her bones, fist curling, at her lack of interest in her own well-being. Fashion will be the least of her worries; she bites back any cutting remarks, any threats, veiling them with a sorrowful sniff, rubbing her eyes. Everybody must be oblivious, if this is to work.

                    She hands it over. "Wear it. The shirt is bright. That, or cover it in mud to hide the visibility."

                    "I'll stick to the jacket." Is all she trusts herself to say as she pulls it on, weighing almost nothing. "Finished?"

                    "Yes," Yasmina says, hand clasping a glass of champagne. She pauses midway through her sip. "Wait, no, I've got to give you this."

                      She fishes a dainty silver ring out of her pocket, throwing it to her. It's made of interlocking chains; one that she immediately puts back on. Lucien made her this ─── and she won't forgive Yasmina for almost forgetting to give it to her. "It got through?" She asks, voice nearly a whisper from the weight of the memories threatening to pull her mind home. This is not the time to be distracted.

                    "Yep." Yasmina says, retiring to the sofa. "They didn't let everything through though. The boy from Two, nasty kid if you ask me, had a district pin as his token. Pretty normal, until twisted ─── the fastener extends, which was coated in poison. He claimed he had no knowledge of it." She raises her eyebrows, pausing, relishing in the rare attention. "They had no way to prove it, but he lost it anyway. Not even his father could do anything about it."

                    Amira cannot help the frown that falls onto her face. "Father?"

                    The stylist nods, almost in pity. But not enough to stop talking. "Augustus Gallohair, Senior Undersecretary to the Head Gamemaker. Still holds plenty of power despite his position."

                    Oh, shit. No wonder Octavian breezes through everything confident, arrogant even, with that ridiculous smirk ─── he's practically won already. The game will be played to his advantage, strings pulled by a father who actually loves his child. Who keeps him from death, who protects him from the other tributes. Who has far, far more power than she does. She feels her plan crumbling a little more.

                    "It's just so problematic." Yasmina says, picking at her flawless nails. "I hate nepo babies. Juno Silvana, bumped up to One because apparently she's a lost heiress."

                    She mutters as if she deserves the position instead.

                    After that, thick silence falls in the room, silence you could cut with a knife. Frays of nerves slowly spark into anxiety, which in turn begins to turn into terror. She fights against it, refusing to fall under the sweet lull of fear ─── if her head goes beneath water, she'll never breathe again. She picks her nails, biting them; it's a habit her mother broke out of her years ago, but what does it matter? In less than an hour, she could be dead. She won't, she tells herself, but all the same ─── she could be. Gone forever, leaving Lucien and Kiran, the two she holds dear. Gnawing on her cheek, the coppery taste of blood fills her mouth.

                    "What are my odds?" She asks, a question that's been a source of curiosity.

                    Yasmina raises a brow, sipping at her champagne. "I don't know. Pretty low, I guess, but I never check them. Waste of time."

                    Terror flashes to anger far too quickly; she starts to shake. Yasmina reads this the wrong way. "They don't matter, not really. They're a guess, well, an educated one, but they don't tell the future. No point worrying about them."

                    "They're really bad, aren't they?"

                    She gives the tiniest nod and glances at the clock. "Time to go. But I'm not just saying it to make you feel better. They can't absolutely tell the future."

                    Amira nods glumly nonetheless.

                    An automated voice rings out, warning that launch time is in thirty seconds. They walk to the circular metal plate in the centre of the room, the one she's ignored until now. Yasmina smiles as she steps onto it, but it doesn't reach her eyes. "Good luck, Amira Montgomery. You need it."

                    She opens her mouth to snap that she doesn't, but before she can ─── a glass cylinder descends around her, and it's soundproof. She lifts her chin, willing a tear to spill down her cheek. Yasmina gives her a thumbs-up before looking away, blonde hair hiding her sorrowful expression; this part was never in the job description.

                    Amira stands as straight as she can; slowly, agonisingly, for the best part of twenty seconds, she feels the metal plate rising, pushing her out of the cylinder, up into the open, fresh air. Many things come at her, flooding her senses; the first is the heat, a solid wave, heavy, unrelenting, thick. The second is the light ─── the sun is high in the sky, shining brightly, blinding. For a moment, all she can do is blink. The third is colour; blue, blue, blue everywhere. The sky and the sea, all a perfect shade of azure. Turning around, a burst of beige and green; she has never seen this much colour in her life. More details come into view as she wildly spins around, little pockets of yellow and green poking through the blue everywhere.

                    Islands, she thinks dimly, before shaking off her stupor. Attentive glances around her, and she sees the rest of the tributes arranged in a perfect circle, all facing a forested island, where the ground slowly dips toward the centre. On her left, she sees Yoselin Becke, who already assumes a sprint start, an animalistic grin carved into her features. On her right, Avens Fida ─── seeing his dark skin and determined stance allow her to fall back to her second plan. She briefly wonders if it's too unrealistic, but hides her grin, reminiscent of Yoselin's. These are her games, she tells herself, and around her are pawns who think they are wolves.

                    She becomes conscious of a strong smell of salt when a hologram appears in the centre of the island, hovering high above their heads. The mechanical numbers above display ten, and count down, in time with her racing heart. It reaches two, and she crouches, preparing to run. The voice of Claudius Templesmith booms everywhere from hidden speakers: "Ladies and gentlemen, let the Seventieth Hunger Games begin!"

                    The horn blares, she takes off across the sand, and pure carnage erupts. 

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 :
( 5,447 words! )
it's starting!! since the start i've wanted to
get to the fighting,, but the buildup before
the games is so important / you can't just
skip it. this chapter is mostly the same as 
before with just a light edit tying up small
inconsistencies etc, etc.

but it's amira's pov!!  she is one of the most
interesting ocs i've come up with, esp with
  her motivation for winning isn't just i don't
want to die. of course, that's part of it, but 
she wants to fight for her own future also!
 so far i love that her,, but later on . . . she's
a pretty hard character to write,, esp since
 i don't want to reveal too much abt her 🤫

kind of a filler chapter, but i promise it gets
more exciting  in the next one cause it's the
fighting 🗡️🗡️

vote and comment if you enjoyed <3