Brad stepped into the cool, humid room. A thick mist shrouded most of the room in mystery hold for two dim lights. One was particularly cheap looking, illuminating a beaten-up red flag. The other was a sinister purple with silhouettes of all shapes and sizes dancing around what the career could only guess was a balcony. He took a few steps in the direction of the flag, fastening his grip on his dual hatchets with a mannequin draped over his shoulder. This was going to be a long shot. God, he hoped this worked. Swinging the axe into the hillside, he slipped a bit, though he was quickly able to pull himself up. And sure enough, he got straight to climbing. Left. Right. Left. Right. He had to get that flag. Thank God that he had the upper body strength to pull his own weight plus this mannequin's up... He wondered what the other tributes had done to climb? Left. Right. Left. Crash. With a thud, a log came barreling out of the fog. One.. Two... Brad watched as the log bounced through the muck and landed right in front of him, continuing its trek on towards the bottom of the hill. Three- He swung the sharp end of the axe straight into the log, splitting it in half. Brute strength. That's how he'll win these games. Flakes that had flown from the log sat atop his freckled face as he continued climbing. The creak of another, much larger, log echoed through the room. Brad shimmied behind a boulder, ducking and tucking his legs under the rest of his body almost instinctively. He held the mannequin firmly, as if it were the only thing that had ever mattered to him. The gamemaker's were sure to take notice, right? The ground shook when the log flew over the boulder (and by proxy, Brad and mannequin) and landed on the other side. The career climbed atop the boulder and jump vertically, digging his hatchet once more into the hillside. Left. Right. Left. Right. He could hear the twisting of that plastic-fabric flag flapping in the artificial breeze. He was close. So, so close. Out of nowhere a giant tree fell from the top of the hill. Brad, panicked, raised his left hatchet. There were no boulders to hide behind and this tree seemed to be too large to cut in half. He threw the hatchet in front of the log, it's handle sticking out of the mud. He wrapped his arm around the mannequin, using his body to shield it from the terror coming ahead. Eyes were squeezed shut. The log caught the stuck hatchet, hopping a little bit and landing at a weird angle. With a tremor that felt like it shook his soul and the large snap of what sounded like branch, the tree flew down the hill. That was... lucky... When he opened his eyes, he noticed a red splatter on the face of the pristine (except for a little mud) mannequin. He then noticed the arm that had been holding the hatchet supporting himself. All mangled and twisted in a variety of unnatural ways. He quickly felt his shattered arm's grip on his lifeline waning and hoisted the mannequin onto his shoulder. Using his one good hand, he grabbed the hatchet. The last hatchet. The only way to get to that flag. He couldn't tell if it was the adrenaline, or the shock, but he was barely able to show any pain towards his lost limb. Brad nodded his head so his red sunglasses would fall into the bridge of his nose as soon as he felt tears draining from his eyes. These weren't tears of sadness, no, but of pain. Furiously kicking, he continued up, inching closer and closer to the flag. Once he finally dug the hatchet onto the top of the hill and carried himself up he gasped for air. Brad stood up and removed the flag from the mud. He sat the mannequin beside him so it was leaning against his leg. The fog quickly dissipated, revealing the gamemaker's balcony looking down at him. Brad had the flag and the mannequin's hand tangled in his fingers while his shattered arm laid at his side. He met Imperium's frosty, purple gaze. "For my fiancé, Briseis. For her I'm willing to lose life and limb. Forever and always." Brad started to feel shaky, and his vision grew more and more blurry. The next thing he knew he was lying on the floor, staring at the mangled arm he had given up. The arm he had given up for a small shot. The small shot of showing the gamemakers he could be the Capital's lovebird.
