He had metamorphosed into an entity in which even a certain tribute ingrained with hazel roundures wouldn’t know. This child of technology had survived against all odds, yet the Arena, being the mistress of malevolence that she is, stripped him of what one may brand as a “sane” disposition. Oh yes, an engineered domain of feigned greenery had damn well exacted its pound of flesh— Prine Ivory being listed as nothing but a mere casualty in this tournament that would soon whisper its swan song into the ear of a tortured soul.
The world around him had changed.
Colours once so vibrant, so exuberant, had fallen flat. They had fallen flat, and here he was. Titus Baxwell, District Three, seventeen years of age upon date of entry— the number on a biological clock having now reached eighteen. Symbols representative of ones lifespan were frivolous, however. Titus of all people should know this, for his recollection of that instance was of immaculate stature. Wherever she was, she was grinning that ghastly simper of hers, and Titus speculated this youth to be his magnum opus.
Preoccupied with dwelling about past occurrences, minutes had passed before brunneous orbs latched onto ones similar in hue. Then, as if sharing some pique inside joke, niveous accents replicated the grin flaunted by a lone individual.
“Seven,” the blonde greeted discordantly, malnutrition obviously having taken its toll on the tribute’s body. “I have to admit, I never thought that it would be like this; you and me. Hell, we must have given Panem quite the heart attack.” Resting his weight upon lumber just as the adversary before him had, Titus saw no immediate threat. That’s not to say he wasn’t ready to draw that infamous blade of his at a moment’s notice, of course.
“Three and Seven: the latter of 24 tributes. The parting song of this sanguinary orchestra. What a run it’s been.” The words had a bitter tinge to them as Titus sized up his foe. “How’d you do it, hm? The Arena’s not exactly a playground for those faint of heart. Though, seeing as how we’re both standing here, I’m going to take a shot in the dark and guess that you’re not exactly the most… docile person.” Edging forward ever-so-slightly, his feet remained planted on manufactured soil as a hollow colloquy continued to flow. “Let me tell you a secret, my dear bucker… Neither am I.”
