Jem Darling, District 1

***Dropped Out***

Lyric Mason, District 2

***Did Not Hand In, Strike 3***

Technick Flux, District 3

 After the attack, Technick needed some time to calm his nerves. His allies had informed him that he indeed had passed out. Was the trauma too much for him? His friends surrounded him as he slept, making sure that he wouldn't get attacked while he deeply slumbered. He appreciated the concern, but it was a bit nerve-wracking walking up to scathed and bloody faces in the morning, or evening, or night. You couldn't tell time in the theater arena, the fluorescent lights gave the illusion of a never-ending performance.

Of course, we are the performers.

Technick mutters aimlessly and tiredly, "I need to go take a walk or something." His allies nod in understanding, except for Mye.

"Why? You slept, you should be pretty energized," he spoke the truth. How was Tech supposed to tell him that he needed to get away from himself? He couldn't, it was very pathetic. And Technick may be cowardly, but he is not pathetic.

"I'll be back, don't worry. I just need some fresh...air?" It sounded like a question, because he couldn't get fresh air in this arena. Or any arena.

Mye grunted in response and allowed Technick to leave the circle pf protectiveness. In mere minutes, Technick was engrossed in his thoughts. How did he manage to kill so many beasts in a matter of minutes? How did he save Mye? And why did he get so exhausted because of it?

But the moral that had haunted his dreams the most was the fact that he killed human beings. Actual living souls. People who once breathed and had a steady heartbeat. And all of it was taken away by a boy from Three. A boy with a generic name and face and personality. But yet he was important enough to be have control over someone's life.

It was scary, to say one thing. Quite contrary, Technick felt good when he killed. One kill got him one step closer to home. It freaked him out, but looking back at it, it wasn't that bad.

Why am I acting like this? I never act like this! I should be crying and screaming and ...

And? He passed out, that was his turmoil. His guilt literally knocked his conscious and consciousness aside. If he keeps it up like this, he may be the most well rested tribute in the history of the Games!

After walking around without any purpose, Technick began to turn into some strange hallways he had never seen before. If the theater was the arena, then this sections can only be the outskirts. A beautiful lounge emerged. Plush couches and beautiful paintings decorated the room and walls. The colors were royal and diverse.

Purple swirls, mixes of pink, and faint outlines of red paint made up the color of the vast room. The room wasn't that broad, yet ten Technick's may have passed by together without much fuss. He started to spin in the room, thinking that if he beat the daze, he wouldn't be as dizzy.

He was wrong; with every spin he made, the colors seemed to merge and create brighter colors as he kept passing by. The purple changed to pink, and that to red. Slightly, it began to get lighter, yet brighter. He was in an orange and yellow abyss. This time, the furniture was a little less modern, compared to Capitol standards. To Technick, these designs and decorations were still futuristic and impossible to achieve.

Another turn in the hallway left him in high and mighty green spirits. Seeing the vivid color made him realize that he was still sick and dizzy. Green might have not been the best color to see. But yet, Technick still noticed that the furniture was getting less and less modern.

A turn to right left in the vast unknowns of time. Blue like the ocean and blue like space. Blue like the clouds and the color of his shirt. Blue and blue and blue. He came to appreciate why it's called "being blue." Blue sucks in your innermost being, and sucks it all up into the vacuous space and time continuum. Sadness leaks from you. And morose. And everything terrible and negative that you've faced. Technick liked it here a lot, until he saw her.

Addison Catax's hair was spun in waves, like the blue ocean. She sprinted at him with confusing movements, spasms of strength, like the coral waves hitting a rocky cove. She leaped with the power of Neptune, and struck down on Technick without mercy, like the infinite sea.

She looked so nice as she leaped on him, but he was nicer. He sidestepped and allowed her to fall. He got on top of her and held her in a choke hold. In a moment of confusion, they had knocked a marble replica of a column down. And with it fell its vase. Chips of glass shattered everywhere. But that is what Technick needed.

In the process of getting a shard, he cut himself a bit. Not too deeply, but enough to get some bleeding. He stepped on her chest, but with her training skills, she just pushed him off with a chop of her arms to the back of his knee.

He fell clumsily, with nothing to hold on to. Luckily, he didn't fall on the pieces of glass, but she pounced on him. Addison Catax pressed one of her legs against his left hand, and her other arm against his throat. His throat. Without hesitation, he stabbed her side, and as she turned in pain, he overcame her once more and slit her throat. Bizarre gurgling sounds escaped her lips and blood began to taint her delicate face. She will never speak or breathe or be again.

A cannon boomed somewhere, but it was amplified with the speakers in the spacious room. Red and blue. Blue and red. It all leads to purple.

And certainly, that is what the next room contained. Or rather, rooms. Inside the closed door are two sections separated by a glass wall. Along one side of the room to my right sit a bunch of boxes or containers of basics switches. Pressure, volume, bass, amplification. Basic beginnings to recording studios. On the other side, in the left room, there is a pole with a couple of thick sticks, which I assume to be microphones. But because of their size, they should be called macrophones.

He walks inside the recording section to see if his voice would be heard in the arena.

Hello. He jumps back in surprise. He can't physically hear himself, but he can do it mentally. Can anyone hear me? No one replies, there is no sound of movement. The only sound that he can hear from inside him is the only sound of his beating and thumping heart. Blood pulses to his face when he appears.

He has tousled, chocolate brown hair. Heavy and bushy eyebrows that are too big for his face. His eyes are the color of dried oats with drizzles of honey and dashes of mint. He is slightly tanned, but hardly dark. He looks like Tech.

He is me. And I am him.

You're a mutt, aren't you? Technick wants to ask him verbally, but the clone seems to understand what he mean.

"Yes, you foolish common boy." He lunges at Technick after his very nice comment. Foolish. Common. These are not Nick. Technick is a coward and afraid, but he is not foolish or common.

How can I kill myself without killing myself? The real Technick dodges and clutches the piece of glass in his hand. He won't be able to slash the boy's neck, certainly. The boy throws a clumsy punch, and an even worse block stops it.

Am I that unskilled at fighting? I can't even fight myself!

The Clone follows him around the room. The glass shard won't due. His bow, it won't do much. Technick is thrown back by Clone, and he lands onto the recording boxes. Pressure, volume, bass, amplification.

An idea springs into Technick's mind. Yes, this will be very bloody indeed.

With the clone on his trails, he enters the recording studio. As planned, the Clone follows and throws another punch. Technick dodges again and allows himself to fall. He picks himself back up and flies out of the room. With all his strength, he presses his weight against the door. With an outstretched arm and bow, he moves the four levers up. The pressure of the soundwaves enters Clone's systems. Blood trickles from his nose and ears.

With that horrifying sight, colors flood from Technick's mind.

Waye Tidal, District 4

So, like, I was like walking down this hallway, and I saw this pretty door. I was like, "Yo, cool! What's in there?" So I walked in, and I saw some random dude that looked like me with, like, some bad nails in there. He came at me, and tried to hit me with some big metal thingy. Internally I was like, "Hoe don't do it." Except I couldn't say anything out loud. But then he tried to hit me with it, and I was like "Oh my god." So I had to hit him back, and I may have accidentally smashed his face in. Then there was this other guy in the hallway, who was also dead for some reason. I was all like, "Ew." And then I skipped away.

***Used 13***

Samuel Johnson, District 5

Sammy sniffs and runs a hand over his face, rubbing his eyes. He had stopped crying a while ago, though he hadn't moved from his position crouched against the wall, not yet. When he finally does though, he starts to stand up slowly only to wince at the cracking sound that followed his movement, his joints protesting. Rubbing his knees, he stands up fully to look around, his eyes sweeping from one end of the hallway to the other.

There wasn't much to see. While he had been running from the siren, he'd darted into just any hallway he could, running as far as he could before he had broken down sobbing. It was a miracle that no one had found him and killed him in that time, thought that could probably be attributed to the fact that all the closest tributes to him had been preoccupied by the mutant.

Letting out a surly sigh, the young boy turns and starts down the hallway, in the opposite direction he had entered it from in hopes it would lead him away from the stage. But after just a couple minutes of walking he found this was not the case as the hallway stopped abruptly at two doorways. The one that lead right had no label on it while the one directly in front of Sam read "Backstage" in blocky, easy to read letters.

He gives the unmarked door a curious glance and approaches it hesitantly, turning the knob and cracking it open. He winces at the loud sound it makes as it creaks and stops the door half way open, peeking into the room beyond only to squeak loudly and slam the door shut again as he saw what was on the other side. Laying on the ground had been the body of a female tribute, the District 6 emblem on her uniform splattered with blood. She had been decapitated, her head laying inches from her body next to what had looked like the murder weapon, a cymbal.

Feeling sick to his stomach, Sammy had a hand clamped over his mouth and he squeezes his eyes shut, trying to purge the image of the dead girl from his mind. Her glazed over eyes and still moist stump of a neck refused to leave his memory though and he almost loses what was left of his last meal onto the floor.

After his moment of queasiness passes he quickly stumbles past the door without hesitation, pulling open the heavy black door that lead backstage. To his surprise it didn't creak like he thought it would, and he manages to slip through silently into this next hallway, one that was much darker than the one before it. Sammy realizes then as he uneasily looks around that he was on the opposite side of the stage than he had previously been, now in the left wings instead of the right.

There were less props on this side surprisingly and instead were more costumes, and the short boy was able to weave his way through the maze of clothes racks fairly easily, even in the dim violet lighting coming from the black light above. Once through, he finds himself standing in front of three more doors on the left side of the long continuous hallway.

Confused, Sammy looks back between the way he had come and the unmarked doors now in his path. There was no notable difference between the doors, and he finds himself tentatively reaching for the doorknob of the closest, turning it and pushing the door open slowly. When he saw no gore, and nothing jumped out at him right away, he steps in and looks around tentatively, allowing the door to close softly behind him.

He found himself in what appeared to be a recording studio, but it was so incredibly old, the technology was so ancient that Sammy marveled at how any of the machines had even worked at all back in their time. A layer of dust coated everything and the boy runs his fingers along the chair set up by what seemed the sound board, and when he pulls them away he sees the clean streaks his fingers had left in the dust. Everything seemed to be from the early 2000's, which only increased Sammy's wonder and awe that the room was even there, as he thought everything from before Panem had been destroyed long ago.

Picking up a set of headphones left on the soundboard, he places the bulky object over his ears and smiles, imagining what it must have been like when this studio had been in use, all the music that had been made here. He was about to pull them off again when he is suddenly stopped by a small sound he hadn't heard before, a sound that was coming from the headphones. Bringing a hand up, he presses a hand against one muff and listens closely, jumping when he suddenly realizes what the sound was.

Breathing.

His head snaps up to the glass window that showed inside the recording bubble, seeing the microphones and the sound boxes inside, but... No people. He listens to the sound coming from the headphones again and a shiver runs up his spine. It was definitely breathing that he could hear, the breaths ragged and small. But where was it coming from?

Sammy takes a step away from the soundboard, taking the headphones with him, and he holds his breath, listening for more sounds from the headphones. But there was now nothing, the breathing had stopped. The boy blows out a frustrated and confused sigh but is startled to find that a similar sigh sound through the headphones.

Similar, but not the same.

Sam's heart starts to beat faster and his eyes dart around the room wildly and fearfully. His gaze latches onto a brown wooden door, an old flickering neon sign mounted above it that read "Recording" in curling red letters. He realizes this was most likely the sign that was turned on to indicate when they were recording something in the bubble.

It was on now.

With shaking hands, he takes a step towards the door, reaching towards the knob with a curiosity that could kill a lion. Taking the faded steel knob in his hands he turns it abruptly and watches the door swing open, almost disappointed when he found nothing out of the ordinary inside the recording room. He lets out a sigh and steps into the room fully, looking around one more time before turning to leave

only for the door to slam shut in his face.

Alarmed, Sammy grabs the doorknob and tries to turn it, but it didn't budge, the small boy only managing to rattle wooden door in it's frame. He whimpers and takes a step back, only for him to have the sensation of something was literally reaching inside of him and ripping out all of the air in his lungs. Choking, the boy falls to his knees and gasps for air, his shoulders and chest heaving as if he'd just been running a marathon. He lets out a croaking groan, only for the same thing to happen again and he collapses on the ground, writhing as he tried desperately to get air back into his lungs.

Even after he could breathe again, he lays on the ground motionlessly, breathing in quick silent little gasps, confused and terrified of this new force that was keeping him from making a sound. He was about to try to get up when a foot suddenly comes from nowhere and kicks him roughly in the gut. Sammy convulses and clamps a hand over his mouth to muffle his sound of alarm and pain.

Rolling over onto his back, he looks up to see who his attacker was and was stunned to see that it was... Him. All four and a half feet of him standing above himself was Sammy, his sandy hair hanging over his eyes and casting a sinister shadow over his face, a uncharacteristic grin twisting his features. Sammy, the one laying on the ground in pain, has to cut off another cry and he quickly rolls to the side again to avoid the clone's foot as he tried to stomp roughly down on the other's rib cage.

The clone chuckles as Sammy stumbles to his feet, the boy's hands still clamped over his mouth. "Hello, Samuel.... Little Sammy... What would you do if would you do if I told you I hate you?" The clone suddenly asks, his head tilting up so his hair would fall from his eyes, revealing the devilish glint in the boy's normally soft olive eyes. "What would you say if you could?" He asks again, somehow managing to make Sammy's hoarse and childish voice sound menacing and cruel.

Sammy squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head rapidly, but does not make a sound, terrified the same agonizing sensation in his lungs would happen again. The other boy frowns, his head tilting down again so his hair fell in his eyes again. "I do. I hate you so much.... So much... So trusting! So weak! Stop feeling sorry for me, you always let me down. You never do anything good for us!" He suddenly snarls and hurdles himself at his equal, knocking the boy to the ground.

Sammy bites down on his tongue painfully hard not to cry out in alarm, and he struggles to get out from under the clone. The look-alike growls, punching the other boy viciously in the face. "FIGHT BACK! YOU NEVER FIGHT! FIGHT ME!!" He screams, and reels his fist back high before bringing it down into Sam's nose swiftly, a loud crack echoing in the small room.

Sammy cuts off an agonized wail and he struggles desperately to get his breath back, punching his twin in the chest roughly in an attempt to push him off. The duplicate chokes and it gives Sammy enough time to shove him back, jumping on top of him and turning the tables. He curls his hand up into a shaky fist and pulls it back, but hesitates before bringing it down on the other. Tears started to leak from his eyes, mixing with the blood dripping from his now broken nose. The clone stares up at him, now silent, and doesn't try to push him off. They were the same person after all, and they both knew.

Knew that Sammy wasn't going to punch him, wasn't going to attack him. He couldn't do it.

The boy relaxes his fist and brings it down defeatedly, and the clone sneers with contempt before bringing his shoulders back and throwing Sammy off of him. Sammy flies back and his head cracks back against a sound box. As much as he wanted to let out a low groan, he holds it back and allows his body to go limp, waiting for his copy to come and attack him again. The clone was growling and it stalks over, bringing its leg up to kick the boy roughly again in the ribs.

"FIGHT! FIGHT B-!!" He starts to yell but his abruptly cut off as Sammy sweeps his legs under the duplicate's ankles, causing him to topple to the ground. The clone lets out a sound of alarm and tries to quickly right himself again but Sammy doesn't give him a chance, jumping on the other boy's back and pinning him to the ground.

The look-alike writhes under the original, trying to throw him off, but Sammy stays firmly put, holding the other's shoulders down with his hands. After only a moment of hesitation, he pulls a hand back and reaches into his pocket, feeling both the toy sling shot, the piccolo, and the elastic band Julia gave him. His throat constricts painfully and his hand goes back to the piccolo, gripping it tightly in his hand and pulling it out.

The clone had frozen now, as if it knew exactly the thoughts going through Sammy's mind, which, it did, and only a second goes by before it starts struggling again, this time more furiously than before. Sammy grimaces and the tears were streaming down his face now, his shoulders shaking from silent sobs. He squeezes his eyes shut and slowly brings the small instrument high above his head, holding the object tightly before bringing it swiftly down on back the copy's head.

Groaning in pain, the clone tries to roll out from under Sammy, but the boy doesn't let him, continuing to slam the piccolo down into the back of the other boy's skull, not stopping until he stopped struggling. Once the boy's body had become limp Sammy cracks his eyes open slowly, the now dented piccolo falling to the ground with a clatter as he lets go of it in horror at his actions. He was now staring at the back of his own skull, blood dripping down through the sandy locks of the shaggy haired young boy.

Sammy scrambles to get off of the clone, his chest heaving as he felt like he was going to hyperventilate. His hands were shaking and stands up wobbly and unsteadily, his eyes glazed and his vision blurred from tears. He was about to step towards the door when the clone suddenly twitches, letting out a low groan. Sammy jumps and his eyes grow wide with horror, realizing that the look-alike was not in fact dead, just knocked unconscious.

Eager to get out of the room before the duplicate woke up, he scampers to the door and tries to turn the knob, but it wouldn't budge. Frantically, he tries over and over again, shaking the knob furiously but the door still would not open. The boy looked stricken, his eyes as wide and wild as a caged animal's as he realizes what it was going to take to get the door open.

The clone needs to die.

His gaze lands on the unconscious boy, and he feels sick to his stomach again. He didn't want to do it, but he had to... 'It's not real, Sammy, it's just a clone...' He tries to calm his conscious dubiously as he takes a step towards the duplicate. Kneeling on the ground slowly, almost like a sleepwalker, he picks up the broken instrument and grips it tightly in his hand before using the other hand to tilt the clone's head up so his chin was on the ground instead of his forehead.

Once he had the copy's head positioned right and his neck stretched out, Sammy lifts the piccolo high above his head and after only a moment of hesitation, he brings the instrument down hard into the other boy's neck, a loud cracking sound echoing in the small room.

Two things happened at once after that. The clone's body disappeared instantly like a hologram that had had its signal cut off, and the door swings open with a loud, elongated creak.

Sammy stays there for a long moment, staring at where the clone's body had been, before he suddenly stumbles to his feet, leaving the now dented and bloody instrument there on the ground. He trudges out of the recording bubble in a daze, and was about to leave the recording studio all together when he suddenly pauses and touches that set of old headphones still dangling around his neck. He'd all but forgotten about them during the fight.

Picking it up, he slowly brings the object up over his head again and presses the speakers against his ears, listening. And he heard... Nothing.

The breathing had stopped.

Mye Bentler, District 10

***Used 13***

Noel Way, District 11

As I walk down the hallway I open the door into a old recording studio, it has a tattered poster of a band called Bullet For My Valentine.

I play around with the buttons for awhile but I see something moving in the next room.
I decide to investigate with my new friend the beast, I blinded it so it can't harm me.
I open the door to the studio and I see a clone of me, the door slams shut.

I take out my napkin which is soaked with the blood of my victims and I grin slightly tilting my head to the side.

"Oh look if it isn't the psychopathic Noel." The clone taunts.

I want to speak back but I have the feeling if I do I will die.
I don't know why but this room gives me a bad feeling, I'm not ready to die yet.

My clone slowly steps towards me holding a sharp shard of wood.

"Your a disgrace to District Eleven, you deserve to die." The evil me cackled.

That's when I thought of an idea.

I threw my little beastly friend towards the clone, my friend ripped into it's eyes.

I take a water bottle out of my bag and head towards the old microphone, it's still working.

I take the mike and throw it in the clones direction it hits its head then I throw the water.
The clone howls in pain and it slowly starts to shatter.

"Curse you." The mutt hisses and then it finally collapses.

The door slowly opens then I walk out but not before taking the tattered posted off the wall and shoving it in my bag.

You never know what could be of use in the games.

As I walk out I see Technick Flux dead with his throat gashed open.