Alanna Pyre:

The elevator doors opened, revealing the massive gymnasium that she would spend the next three days in, preparing her survival skills for the Games. She cautiously walked over to where the rest of the tributes were, her district partner anxiously following. She listened intently to the instructions given by the head trainer; keep the equipment at their respective stations; follow any advice their mentors had given, and don't fight with the other tributes; there'll be plenty of time for that in the arena. The tributes were dismissed, and began to fill the stations. Alanna looked around, desperately looking for a vacant station. She glanced to the other side of the room, and saw the projectile weapons station; completely empty.

She quickly walked over to it, and took inventory of the station. There was an abundance of throwing knives; several boxes full; some shurikens, which looked like stars, and a single blowgun, loaded with darts. Instinctively, Alanna grabbed two knives, one in each hand, her small fingers naturally wrapping themselves around the handles. She walked over to the other side of the station, where several pristine training dummies were set up, and let the first knife fly from her hand. It hit the dummy right in the throat. Pleased with herself, she launched the next knife, hitting the dummy square on the shoulder. Good. After all, she had to fend for herself in her district, and the knife was her only friend. But knives were always a popular choice for tributes to flock to in the bloodbath, and going for one straight off the bat would result in certain death. She needed another weapon to use, a less common one.

Alanna quickly spotted another weapon amongst the many knives; the throwing stars. She picked one up, and prepared to throw it when a sharp pain coursed throughout her hand. She let out a small yelp in pain, and dropped the star to the floor, one point bloodstained. She turned her hand over and saw a neat gash across her palm. She looked closer. It wasn't deep and should be healed by the time the Games began. Sighing in relief, she went back to finding a backup weapon, but could only find knives, knives, and more knives. Frustrated, she slammed her good hand on the nearby desk, causing a small box to fall over. She bent over, to pick it up, and gasped at the contents of the box.

Inside was a small blowgun, with at least twenty darts. She pulled both the gun and the small bag containing the darts, and loaded it. She sauntered over to the dummies, and fired. It landed exactly on the heart of the dummy, fake blood pouring out. She shot at the next dummy. Right in the heart again. She fired at the remaining three dummies, with the exact same results. This seemed to come naturally to her. She could survive, and potentially win, with these two weapons. But her mentors words relayed in her head. He had told her to find three weapons to work with. She already had two ranged weapons, but a melee weapon wouldn't be unwelcome either. She placed the blowgun back, and moved on to another station; trap making.

As soon as she arrived, Alanna found exactly what she wanted her last weapon to be; the rope. It had so many different functions; she could use it to strangle or hang someone; she could use it as a whip, and she could use it to tie herself to trees or other unstable surfaces. She got to work laying a trap, and grabbed a spare dummy, throwing it onto the rope. The trap wasted no time in stringing the dummy by the neck, hanging it. The trainer congratulated her on a successful trap, but Alanna just offered a hostile glare. This trainer was partly responsible for sending her here, expecting her to kill others for the fun of it. She bent down to untie the rope when a cry of fear pierced the room. All eyes turned to face Caleb, Alanna's district partner, as he cowered in fear, the boy from 5 towering over him, holding a massive sword. Even though she swore not to have anything to do with her partner, Alanna couldn't help but feel concerned for Caleb. The sword began to come down, about to kill him, when every Peacekeeper in the room tackled the boy from 5 to the ground. Caleb scrambled up, and hastily retreated to the trap making station with Alanna.

"Look, I know you don't want anything to do with me, but did you see that? He was prepared to kill me before the Games have even started!" He said, wide eyed, fear plastered all over his face.

"I saw," Alanna replied, "And I think it'd be best if we avoid him." She finished untying her rope, the dummy slumping to the floor, lifeless.

Markus Lucian:

As soon as he stepped out of the elevator, he made a beeline straight to the weapons station. He grabbed two broadswords, the cold of the metal feeling right on his hands. He walked over to the dummies, and proceeded to swiftly tear them apart. Not so different from his parents, only less blood. Yes, he needed to see blood, to confirm he killed the dummies. He plowed his sword into the centre of the dummy, puncturing the blood bag. The perfect white fabric turned a deep red, the liquid pooling on the floor. Dead. Like a person. That easy. Markus' face contorted into a slight smile, barely visible, but there. Just stab twenty three people like that, and he would be the victor. His smile grew as he realised just how easy the Hunger Games were. He impaled the remaining dummies, and moved on. Both him and his district partner were told to find three weapons; one melee, one ranged, and one of their choice. Well, he had already found a melee weapon; now for a ranged one.

Markus crossed the room to the archery station, and picked up a crossbow. He positioned it in his hands, aiming at the dummy, and fired. It hit it right in the heart, blood flowing. Blood. Good. He continued to fire, decimating all the dummies at the station. So far he had destroyed thirteen dummies. More than half the required amount of things to kill in the arena. Easy. In fact, he could probably off the others by the first night. And set a record for fastest Games won. He lost himself in the fantasy, failing to notice that another had taken residence at the station.

He looked to see the boy from 6 standing there, holding a sword. A thought crept into Markus' head; why not start the Games early? He ripped the sword from the boy's hand, and pushed him to the floor, the sword posed to kill. How easy. But before he could kill, he was on the floor. Peacekeepers, many of them, piled on top of him. He took a glance at where his sword had fallen, his victim fleeing to the safety of his younger partner. A little girl, probably thirteen at the oldest. How delightfully simple it would be to kill her. An arrow to the head, a snap of the neck. The possibilities were endless. Suddenly, pain. In his head. A Peacekeeper had hit him. Overtaken by fury, Markus leapt to his feet, and grabbed the Peacekeeper in a headlock, his powerful muscles crushing the Peacekeeper's windpipe. He then proceeded to crush the windpipe, and the Peacekeeper slumped to the floor, dead. He let a wry smile show. No different than his mother, only less blood.

Before he could react, another Peacekeeper fired a dart at him. His vision blurred, and his senses became dull. He tried to walk, but his legs buckled, and he cave in, collapsing on the floor, crushing the corpse of the dead Peacekeeper.

The rest of the Peacekeepers grabbed the unconscious Markus, and brought him back to his floor, strapping him to the bed.

"Man this kid's screwed up." One Peacekeeper, a young woman with dark hair and skin dyed a shade of blue, said, opening the door.

"Yeah," another replied, "But this kid's got exactly what's required to win. I don't know about you, but I'm betting on him."