Writers' Games - Free Falling {CLOSED}

Cloud Maize's Bloodbath

My stylist, as per usual, grunts at me as I fidget, hot under the collar - no, more like dying under the t-shirt, if we're being precise here. "Keep still, Cloud," he mutters as I squirm under his touch, feeling uncomfortable in the outfit organised.

See, it doesn't matter what emotions I have, if my outfit isn't exact, up to my standards, then my entire mood drops to fit the lack of comfort that my outfit supplies.

I don't even bother to mutter "sorry," it's more of a grunt than anything, not even a grunt that forms words - just a grunt. No one says anything as he tries to tie my shoe for me. I'm not exactly one for human contact - unless it's hand-to-hand combat, in which case I love it - so I flinch as his hands caress the boot. "I'll do it," I inform him, almost flicking his hand away to tie my own shoe.

The laces don't seem to match the knot in my stomach; they're tighter than my nerves. If I was allowed to bet, I'd bet money on half of the tributes quivering in their boots, most likely tied by their own stylists - how many of them had the courage to say no to the overly touchy members of the Capitol?

"Thirty seconds."

As I stand up and make my way to the pipe, my stylist begins to cough. Yeah, the two of us had gotten off on the wrong hand, absolutely no doubt about that, but seeing someone youv'e worked with leave to face their inevitable death - every year - must be one of the hardest parts of being a stylist.

"Cloud," he mutters, scratching his beard slightly. "All I can say is one thing: be careful what you wish for. You just might get it."

I know that most people will hug their stylists, weep on each other's shoulders as they prise themselves off of each other, finger by finger. Not me though, no. These words of encouragement - I guess - are all I need to get through these games. It's not like I'm sentimental, and neither is my stylist, granted.

"Ten seconds."

As I enter the glass pipe around me, I can't help but smile to myself as the realisation daunts on me that in a few minutes, I will be killing children. Even if I die trying in the process, I'll kill as many competitors as I can. No, I'm not counting myself out of the run, but the likelihood of a boy from Nine returning home is pretty slim, if you ask me. If you ask anyone, they'd be more likely to put money on a Career than myself.

Just as I enter the real world again, the glass door accelerates, catching me off guard as the door clicks shut - or slams shut, to be more accurate. Regaining my breath, I wave to the man who dressed me up and stripped me down multiple times, aiding me in my quest to gain a sponsorship of some sort.

He smirks up at me as my panel jolts; it vibrates as it starts to move underneath my foot. Waving back as the pedestal begins to ascend, deliver my body to the arena, I realise that I may miss him more than any other person I've been associated with. Being a thug, having a gang of supporters, breaking the law is all fun and games, but it leaves you with little human contact. This guy, despite me not knowing his name, may be the most important guy in my life.

My feet soon rise above his head level, leaving me and my thoughts to be momentarily consumed by the darkness. As the black nothingness conceals me with my overactive bomb of a mind, I let my brain do the thinking it should do before we enter the arena.

Because knowing my luck, my brain will think of a pun or something as I'm five seconds away from pouncing into the ring of death.

I wonder what I'll do if I'm lucky enough to win. Actually, if the Capitol has been tracing my every move, I doubt that I'll be allowed to live; they'd be in fear of me committing a murder outside of the area or something stupid. But if they haven't been stalking me, ridding me of my rights to a life of privacy, I do wonder what I'd do with the victory.