Arena 15: In The Eye Of The Capitol

[etcircenses]

For the majority of you, this has become a familiar morning routine. Escorts come to pick up their Tributes and Stylists quickly see to setting them up with the bland and thin grey suits, much to most of their dismay. You'll not hear a word said in complaint though. The staff has gotten the threat to them loud and clear. Only the daring will be willing to offer even a mere "good luck". Peacekeepers quickly collect Tributes to send them off into the launch tubes. If you're from the Districts, it may be one of the last things you ever see.

20

19

18

What everyone rises up to is not much better a sight. It's a war zone out here in every sense. Those native to Panem will recognize the sight before them, having seen it every year in a propaganda tape. The wreckage of District thirteen. The Cornucopia sits at the very center. Offworlders might recognize some of the weapons there, and if not, then they'll certainly be able to spot some familiar scenes far on the outer edges of the arena, perhaps even a beast or two they know well from their worlds.

8

7

6

It's muddy and damp and there's plenty of wreckage to cut one's self upon no matter where it is Tributes run. The Cornucopia tempts the Tributes in for its bloodbath. Districter and Offworlder alike, there will only be one winner.

3

2

1

The gong rings out and a voice announces; “The Arena is now open”. The Tributes are free to make their choice; to run or to fight. The Games have begun.

~~~

By the end of the night, one child from each District will have their face shone up into the sky, the first twelve killed at the Cornucopia. Only twelve to go...

Comments

Éowyn | OTA

[shieldofrohan]

Éowyn's blood is boiling in her veins. It's all she can do to keep herself steady as she waits for the countdown, all the anger and grief she feels starting to push towards some kind of breaking point. They pit children against us? Their own children? It disgusts her on every level, and she has to be angry at it, because if she doesn't rage, she'll cry.

So she lets that anger and futile hate build up inside her, and then she runs, long legs thundering across the sterile, scorched earth. I can't do this, she thinks, not again. But part of her thrills to the sudden rush of adrenaline she feels surge through her veins, and she doesn't hesitate, her head down and her braided hair slapping against her back as she dives for the Cornucopia.

And then her hand is on a backpack, one that feels reassuringly heavy, one that has a sword visible from the haft upwards sticking out of the top. A fine prize, she thinks, and even as she slings it onto her shoulder, looks about for the inevitable competition.