Sawyer had stuffed the real orange flag into her bra. She and Ellemora had been walking for awhile, trying to find a good place to hide it. The team had agreed that somewhere up high would be good, a place that would be hard for the other tributes to reach, that would incur some risk for them. But of course, this meant that she or Ellemora would also need to incur risk.
They had struck up some sort of temporary peace, at least while they had this shared goal, but they were far from allies, and she certainly didn't trust Mora.
They'd skirted the dining hall, hugging its edges lest they be spotted by a tribute from the blue team, when she saw the towering structure ahead. "Oh, up there," she said, pointing.
Ellemora Datum (she/her). District Three Tribute. Twenty-three. Simone Ashley.
If there was one thing Ellemora wished, it was that she had been born in District 1. The glitz, the charm, the dazzle – it all attracted her. It was almost as compelling as District 1’s connection to the Capitol. The Capitol, she knew, was the place she was meant to be. She felt a connection with the richer districts, as most of her time was spent maintaining their websites and editing their codes.
That wasn’t to say she was disloyal to District 3. She was proud of where she was from, of the legacy and work they did. But what she refused to accept was that they should be treated any less than their neighbors – the “Careers.” Why shouldn’t Three also hold that status? Why shouldn’t Three be as revered, as honored, as respected? After all, it wasn’t like they were District Twelve or something. Three had it’s charms and beauty with its industrial architecture and towering data hubs.
With her two parents too busy cheating on each other to raise a child, Ellemora spent her childhood determined to be the first-ever Career Tribute from Three. She studied the Hunger Games each and every cycle and trained her body as best she could in a District where physical labor wasn’t rewarded. She requested (and was denied) a treadmill desk at her data maintenance job, she ran to and from locations despite having flat feet, and she poked and stabbed at invisible enemies with a dull kitchen knife whenever her parents weren’t home.
Mora’s mind toes the line between pride and naiveness, between admirable and laughable, and between inspiring and pathetic. She is fully convinced that she has done what she needs to bring pride to her District and catapult Three into the limelight of Victors and Tributes. It was a massive shock to all when the normally-silent Reaping ceremony was interrupted by her volunteering, though Fadi Lew (who had been Reaped) was beside herself with relief.
Her District token was a small chip containing a simple program that, when run on a computer, played a short animation of the map of District Three expanding to cover all of Panem. However, the Gamemakers quickly erased any information on the chip (a precaution after the VR Games) and returned it to her – so now her token is simply a useless puzzle piece of technology. One might hope that this doesn’t portend her time in the Arena.
(+) ambitious, quick-learner, planner
(-) overconfidence, bigger bark than bite, lacks gravitas
It was showtime. It was time to prove what she knew - what everyone knew. Ellemora Datum of District Three was here to win. She took a steadying breath as the doors swung open, only to feel it catch in her throat as the empty training center spread out in front of her.
But no - this was no time to choke. She took a few steps in, tossed her hair over her shoulder, and strode to the center of the arena with her shoulders back and a cocky smile on her face. She made a sharp turn to look up at the Gamemakers, high in their loft.
"Hello!" she called, forcing her voice to remain centered. "My name is Ellemora Datum of District Three, and I am the Victor of the One Hundred and Thirty Second Hunger Games!" She held for applause. None came. She turned her eyes to the Training Center and was struck with an awful realization: she had spent way more time working the social ladder than she had in actual skills.
Well, there was nothing to it, then. She'd have to trust her gut and pull out the performance of a lifetime. She needed to start with a bang. Her eyes found a dummy, some distance away. With what she interpreted as a guttural roar, she sprinted at it, throwing her body in an attempt to tackle it to the ground. She was not fully successful, though with a little wrestling and pulling (and more grunts of effort!) she took the dummy down. With a triumphant laugh, she straddled it, raking her nails across its face. Whether or not there was damage wasn't of issue - she needed to show the Gamemakers she could get down and scrappy. She leaned down to bite into the dummy's neck, growling how she imagined a lioness might during a hunt. Nothing about her attack actually punctured the dummy's casing, but again! It was about the drama. Actual killing would come in the Arena.
Feeling that this enemy was summarily dispatched, Mora awkwardly stood up from her mount to look for her next skill. She found one of the few she actually had tried - the sword. With a wicked grin, she hurried to grab one. It was heavier, she thought, than before, but no matter. She swung it with gusto at a dummy, striking it with the flat of the blade and unceremoniously bouncing backward, throwing her a bit off balance. Her brow furrowed - she could do this. With more focus, she took a second swing and nearly shouted in excitement as a long-but-shallow gash appeared across the dummy's chest. Fatal or not, she had done it - and suddenly her conversation with Electra came flooding back to her.
She wasn't a Career. She didn't have the support. She didn't have the expectation of goodness - or even competency. She was just yet another Tribute from District Three expected to go into the Arena and die - just as so many hundreds had before her. This was her doomsday.
A mix of anguish and adrenaline surged through her veins. With fire in her steps, she let go of the sword and sprinted to her weapon of choice. The knives called to her - the one thing in her home District she had a chance to use. With otherwise surprising dexterity, she scooped a large dirk off the table and spun in her hand, taking it into an easy overhand grip.
It was almost as if the dummy she had wrestled with before had come alive. It was like she could see it breathing, see it angry from the first fight. It felt like slow motion as she saw a face on the dummy - Ren's, Juliana's, Victor's - look up at her with rage in its eyes. With a shriek of pure defiance, Mora rushed the dummy, knife raised. She slashed down, piercing the chest. She pulled the blade out effortlessly, changed her grip midair, and stabbed the dummy in the side of the face, tearing through its cheek. Up, switch grip, down into its shoulder. Up, switch grip, down into its chest again - this time, dragging before up, switch grip, down into its throat. She forgot where her screaming stopped, but she felt the knife reverberating from the shaking of her hand. One final down thrust and the knife stuck in the dummy's open chest, stuffing bleeding everywhere. Ren or Victor or Riley or Sawyer or Collier looked up at her, still seething with anger. She stared back at it, breathlessly anticipating for it to get up, to fight, to move.
The buzzer pulled her from her reverie after minutes of silence. Suddenly the dummy was just a dummy again. She pushed herself to standing and looked at the Gamemakers, unsure of what to say. She took a steadying breath that rattled out of her lungs. "Ellemora Datum. District Three." She gently tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and exited, hoping the dummy didn't follow her out. Showtime was over.
