Reutruse Ferran Haervic's Story

With a start Reutruse lunged from the waters that engulfed him, sputtering the mass of scented bubbles that had worked their way into his mouth as he did so. By the faint light of an army of aromatic candles that surrounded him, he could make out slick porcelain slopes extending a good foot or so above where he'd submerged, a multitude of care supplies too vast for his own comprehension stacked on the ledges, and his own horribly bewildered face staring back at him from above. Why anyone would need an eight by ten foot mirror directly above them--literally on the ceiling--when they bathed was far beyond him, but the glimmering expanse of glass did well to remind him of where he was.

So he'd fallen asleep in the tub, hardly surprising. The scalding embrace of bubbles galore was essentially the same as any plush, extravagant bed and ran a far greater risk of having his unmentionables broadcasted across Panem--a fear he held with probable cause, he'd never quite been able to stand the irritation of clothes while he slept and they always found a way to somehow shed themselves in the night.

Bringing a hand from the depths of the tub, he grimaced at the fate his skin had suffered for the cause, pruned and gnarled as it now was after who knows how long submerged in tepid water; water that had essentially been boiling when he'd first stepped in, having absolutely no idea to the workings of any of the many contraptions that dotted the train, temperature control hardly an exception.

A deep sigh, and a great deal of effort later, the blonde boy had forced his way out of the far too tempting hold the waters held on him, throwing five of the impossibly soft bath towels that dotted the room over his soaked form. The Capitol may have been an evil omniscient force that had essentially doomed him to death, but damn they made comfy towels. If it wasn't so vastly inappropriate and he'd be likely to have his stylist hunt him down for it, Reu was definitely considering staying draped in his oh so fuzzy towel rather than bother changing.

But Miri was already quite the crazed one, even as far as the eccentricities of stylists went, and she had threatened to chop off his manly bits and serve them to him with a side of buttered squash if he in any way challenged the structural integrity of his chariot wear...probably best to just take her "expert" advice and not run the risk of castration next time he saw her. It wasn't like she had any particularly horrendous taste for fashion either, when compared to some of the other stylists, he really ought be happy she cared so much for his looks and outfit that she'd resort to threats for their safety. But he wasn't, and with no small amount of resentment, he shed his fluffy towel exterior and haphazardly began to throw on the dark blazer trimmed with an odd--though not unpleasant--weaving olive branch design, the accompanying light grey undershirt, next the slacks that actually fit this time, and then finally struggled through the process of tying his matching flora-inspired tie.

The end result could hardly be considered a tie any longer, more akin to a noose or scarf in the manner it was worn, yet in the views of the fashion-challenged Reutruse it was acceptable enough that, with a triumphant grin to his own reflection, he set out to find the dining cart.

Which, as it turned out, was far, far easier to do in theory than in action. The train was essentially a glorified maze, with its collection of massive, senseless rooms dedicated to one and only one aspect of appearance, care, or comfort, all swarming with peace keepers and avoxes alike. The mutilated Avox servants he avoided for obvious reason, the Peacekeepers even more obvious than that, and so he stubbornly wandered his way, completely lost, through the twisted system of corridors, the entire while pondering to himself just how massive the barreling bulk of extravagant metal he resided in truly was. As of the moment, he was fairly sure it expanded further and taller than even the largest of the trains back in 11, the ones that came for their quotas at the end of every month. To believe anyone had built such an imposing beast of machinery for the sole purpose of transporting the tributes to their prison for the next nine months seemed sheer and utter madness; yet it was exactly what they had done and he doubted anyone had put more than a seconds consideration into the cost. Momentary worth was all that concerned the Capitol and it wasn't as though they had any fear for resources or manpower, it was the districts who would toil away, day after day, to create their own children's glorified hearse, after all, never them.

Though he probably would have dwelled on that thought until he somehow miraculously found his way to the dining car, another, much more crucial, thought had worked its way into his head. With a fervor uncharacteristic of the normally subdued Reu, he raced down the corridors with no regard for direction or courtesy. So be it if he found himself even more terribly lost, or accidentally peered in on one of the ladies rooms, he had to peeeeeeeeee. It wasn't as though his own decency wasn't compromised either!--his pants had all but been shed in his race for a bathroom, it was only by the limp grip of his left hand that they even managed to stay half strewn around his hips as they were.

When all seemed lost and Reu was sure there were no bathrooms in the sea of pointless, gaudy cosmetic rooms, was it that a spark of pity was shown to the poor boy and a glorious bathroom appeared behind door number 15-ish. The prevailing darkness of the room hardly bothered him; he had just been soaking in a tub for a few hours in fear of the cameras broadcasting what no one should ever see, so honestly, it was probably a boon. At least until the darkness called out in a shrill, panicked voice for him to stop as soon as he'd begun to pull at his briefs. It was at this point that Reu practically flew across the massive bathroom, twirling away from the source of the voice mid jump to claw at his slipping pants--only realizing then how desperately he needed to cover his shame.

"What the hell are you doing in here?!" He called out in the single least masculine tone he had ever heard from himself, cheeks burning bright as he continued to struggle with his somehow knotted pant legs. Internally, he couldn't help but curse his shitty luck, of all the bathrooms to stumble into, he found the one with someone already stowed away in it. Of course.

The sedative was helping, but only just so. Cloistered in his womb-like tub-full-o’-bedding, Keeth nearly managed to drift off several times. Every time drowsiness descended, though, there would be some jolt as the train passed over a curve in the track, or the sudden sensation of motion, or even just a tiny vibration (possibly imagined) working its way up the wrought-iron clawed legs of the tub into the polished ceramic basin to stir him back into terrifying reality. He’d been verging on drifting off again when a new sound intruded on his dark cocoon of safety, making its way through the layers of muffling comforter to make his breath freeze taut in his lungs and every muscle in his body go rigid.

It was the door opening. Someone is here, in this room, right now. He cursed himself in silence, for not locking the door. Then he remembered that he’d consciously chosen not to lock the door, because it would have been conspicuous. More conspicuous than a bathtub full of blankets and pillows? Probably not, but… well, it didn’t matter, because someone was there, in that room, right then.

He didn’t dare breathe, or move at all. He listened to the sound of his own heart, pounding away in his chest like the scary boy from Two with the mace he’d boasted about in his interview, and somehow, he managed to pick out the fast, shuffling footsteps crossing from the door to… the toilet.

Rapidly, the cons of choosing a public restroom for a hiding place unfolded in Keeth’s mind. He’d never been comfortable with the human body, with the inherent messiness of it. Part of it had to do with his own physicality. He couldn’t help but compare, even if it was only to his strapping brothers. He was smaller, frailer, less masculine by design. The idea of being seen in any state of undress made his stomach twist, and the idea of seeing other men undressed was so, so much worse. What resulted was something he couldn’t even begin to describe, a mix of wonder and shame and longing that he was hard-pressed to identify correctly, never mind acknowledge or act upon. Being exposed to the styling team in the Capitol had been torturous, but not nearly so much as seeing several of the male tributes in practically nothing on the chariot ride in.

The other part of it had more to do with… well, Keeth could be somewhat prickly when it came to mess. He was unable to count the number of times he’d had to timidly ask his brothers to be a little more careful with their, ah, aim, since he was the one who wound up scrubbing the toilet and floor surrounding it back to gleaming white every day after school. Wiping up stale urine with an array of cloths, sponges, and disinfectant chemicals was one thing; being in the same room with someone who was urinating was entirely another.

He was faced with a grave decision. He could either continue huddling beneath his blankets in silence, hoping that this phantom pee-er would simply finish up his business and move on (after washing his hands, oh god, oh god, Keeth didn’t know what he would do if he didn’t wash his hands!) without noticing the swaddled stowaway in the tub… which meant being subjected to the sound of it, and thus being forced to imagine it… He cut off his thinking there, and considered the alternative. He could reveal himself, since really, he doubted anyone would be letting loose at the latrine if they knew there was someone else present… but that would mean revealing himself, making it much, much easier for him to be dragged out of his theoretically safe nest.

Death by train, or listening to someone pee? Death by train, or listening to someone pee? Death by train, or-

”Stop stop stop stop stop, someone’s in here, occupied!” Shrill was certainly a word for it; panicked and imperative were probably a better combination to do the job. He hadn’t surfaced yet; he’d done such a good job of entombing himself in comforters that he actually had to fight his way out of them. The mass of fabric would seem to shudder in the darkness, until, at last, a single small hand shot out and latched onto the edge of the massive tub. With a grunt, Keeth heaved himself up, popping up, head visible now. He looked alarmed and disheveled, and then froze, staring, when he realized the identity of the intruder.

It’s him, the boy from eleven, the one that made such confusing claims in front of THE ENTIRE WORLD about you. He stared, mouth agape, not even comprehending just yet that Reutruse was sort of exposed. It was dark, but more than that, he’d been dreading the moment that they’d first be alone together since the interviews. Literally dreading it, thinking about it all the time and feeling nothing but dread. Now it was here, in a bathroom of all places, and he couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, couldn’t…

What the hell are you doing in here?

Reutruse’s astonished, strained cry dashed his shocked paralysis to pieces. He was so used to being the one in the wrong that accepting blame came naturally to him, naturally enough to easily eclipse the embarrassment of the situation, even the intense fear of derailment.

”Um, sorry, I’m so sorry, I-“ It was then that he noticed the other boy’s pants. The fact that they were open, and half-falling down his legs. It was dark enough that he couldn’t make out any scandalous details, but it still sent him fleeing back into the dark, warm safety of his pillow fort. Just go away, just go away, just go away…He thought it over and over and over, turning it into a pathetic mantra as he hugged one of the pillows for dear life.

The Train Ride to 'Home'

As I sit here, and I think about how everyone in this place must feel - the tensions rising, the fear, the submission, the lust, and even hatred from some... We are twenty-four souls being placed in to fish bowl without a promise for food. It's basically like we've been told it's coming, and we all gather in a pack, optimism winning us over until we find out one day that... Food isn't coming. Then your mind wanders off in the distance, and it comes to the conclusion that everyone around you is coming to: you're going to have to kill them, to survive.

Is that my coping mechanism this time? Thinking about it as survivalism to cope with the idea that I may actually have to kill someone? That's really what I'm going for? Fucking. Stupid. Shit. But it makes sense, I mean, I hadn't anticipated being reaped. No one does. And I hadn't thought about it much other than mourning the others who went off to their doom. Honestly, I didn't give a second thought until it was Kaylianna's turn.

Kaylianna... I miss you. Is this how you felt when it was your time? Did you ever get a second to meet the people you were destined to end lives next to? I wonder if you'd meant to kill your two victims. It all looked so mistaken, so accidental. Before then, all I had known was the gentle fawn that you always were - always would be - to me, but in the Games, you were completely different. Your attitude, your looks - though now I can lend over most of that blame to your stylist now that I realize what a huge part they are in appearances of the tributes.

It's like this whole thing was planned. You, Kaylianna, were the spark inside of me that ignited as soon as you were killed and I realized at that instance... You'd become a memory. And this whole year that's gone by, I should have been tending to the fire, letting it shine and making a difference to light up this world.

I've let you down, but I promise to make it up to you. I won't let them take me without a fight.

Not without a good memory.

-Marvel

Marvelos hadn't been a writer originally. Sure, he'd written a few diaries because memories were a big deal to him. Did anyone gather that yet? But still, with diaries, he wasn't a huge fan of the pencil and paper, and creating something of an art. Really, his passion was to get his feelings out on paper, because it was easier to unleash them on something that wouldn't spin them into it's own problems and hurt you. He could just open the wound, spill the blood, and apply a bandage as necessary. She was always going to be a tough subject for him, even if they weren't in true love. It was the idea, the theory behind it all. He'd never know what she was to him. They weren't permitted that time to find out.

Despite his mood, Marvel let out a smile. He'd chosen to chill out in the lounging area next to the dining car, his feet propped up on the coffee table as he sat back, his journal laying flat on his stomach, hand over it, and another leaning back behind his head to catch it from hiding the back of the couch. He appeared to be completely relaxed and at ease. He let his gaze scan the area before he'd realized he completely forgot that Tyke was here the whole time, drawing or something. It was Mildred that had brought him out to Marvel, her smile and the way the atmosphere in the room just brightened up with her presence.

This was the kind of girl that needed to be around... All day, every day.

Marvel nodded to her, waving with his free hand with a, "Hey there," and then a respective nod to Tyke, though he didn't want to interrupt the artist at his 'desk'. It wouldn't be too much longer that the car would be filled, and that didn't bother Marvel, but he wasn't sure what he expected out of the other tributes when they would enter through and find the dining car. He let out a laugh to himself at the thought of that one.. Cloud, meeting up with Stiletto at the same end of the table. Sharing elbow room. He laughed again, and that's when he noticed the slight pain in his lower stomach. Signal! Warning! Nature's calling!

With that, he folded his journal under his arm and winked at the others entering through, kindly waiting for each one to pass him and allow entry in the opposite direction. He hadn't quite figured out the way this outline of this machine worked, but he knew somewhere, hopefully some place very near, would provide him the necessary... well, you know. When a man's got to go, it's a timer waiting to go off.

I should really just go to my room. That's the only way I know for certain - But he couldn't remember where it was. Annoyed, he started banging through doors, trying to see if they'd open. His strength was present as he grew more and more frustrated with the idea of not finding an applicable location. Out the window is starting to sound fascinating, but I wonder how that would look at this speed? It would definitely come back at me.

Finally, he slammed hard enough in to one door that he heard a few startled noises and shuffling of bodies - like one being flung from next to the door he'd just barged in. Had he smashed a nose? Run over a toe? He regretted it, but he was worried about the cameras thinking he was attacking someone - and he'd be damned if it was for the world to see. He slipped inside, slammed the door shut with a lock and then turned around to meet his current dilemma in the face.

"I am -SO- sorry, I swear, and this is going to sound like a dick move, but if I don't... Well, I've got to piss like a race horse, so if you guys don't mind having this discussion until after I'm done, that'd be great. Two seconds." He blurted out, wincing at his choice of words before he noted the two were undoubtedly two of the males he'd been staring at during the interview. Both attractive, both definitely on different sides of the world as far as personalities... Both undeniably out for each other before he intruded.

I'm a c*** block. Fantastic.

There'd barely been time for Reutruse to secure his pants and regain his balance once more, before he found himself knocked stumbling across the room, the door he'd been leaning against thrown open with a force he'd hardly anticipated. Catching himself on the brim of the tub--a tub he only then really registered as being there--and narrowly avoiding barreling into the sea of plush pillows held within, he stared, dumbfounded, into the mass of trembling pillows beneath him, illuminated as they were by the momentary flood of light. Eh? Wha...? No way.

As realization dawned on him and his mind's preoccupation with the ever growing need to relieve itself ebbed into guilt, it was difficult to resist the urge to kick himself. Of course it was Keeth, who else would be hiding in a bathtub intertwined in a practical womb of pillows other than the boy. He'd seen him struggle with the Peace Keepers, watched weakly as they practically dragged him aboard and whisked him away to his quarters; that he'd forgotten to check on him, see that he was alright and not burrowing into some strange pillow-y contraption, was inconceivable. To believe he'd abandon the boy to his fears after such a public declaration of fealty--to think him truly such a, well, ass!--there went his entire notion of decency...

"Don't worry about it, it's fine Keeth, really, it's partially my fault anyways, just, could you--" he began to apologize himself, only stopping as another all too familiar voice cut in from behind him, "--I am -SO- sorry, I swear, and this is going to sound like a dick move, but if I don't... Well, I've got to piss like a race horse, so if you guys don't mind having this discussion until after I'm done, that'd be great. Two seconds." Nooooo, it wouldn't--couldn't be him, no way, not even, that's just, cruel, what would even be the chances..? Pivoting around on his heel to face the latest entry into the room, Reu was aghast, yet hardly surprised, to see that, why, yes, it was in fact Marvel. It was at this point that the blonde had come to a conclusion: chance no longer factored into anything in his life, fate was out to get him.

It'd been luck that his hands still remained on the tub's ridge, seeing as how his knees buckled under the weight of his latest revelations, eyes darting between the two occupants of the room, himself, and everything in between as he struggled for words. That expression of Marvel's he'd only managed to catch a glimpse of, how he avoided even glancing in their direction, the way he himself loomed over Keeth even still, disheveled and flustered as he was, a tub shoved full of fluffy cushions and the like--"Oh, no, no, nonononono! It's not what it looks like, with the me, and the him, and the you walking in--I came in here to pee too, just pee, nothing more--not that I'd have any problems doing anything with um, actually, ignore that last bit, yeah, I just, pee--have to--really bad--pleaseee?" Reutruse forced out in a hardly coherent blur, voice dying down to a pathetic plea by the end as the all consuming urge to peeeee wrought it's torment upon his body. It was a dam about to break, sapping every ounce of willpower in his body's efforts to resist relieving himself right there, right then; if his pained, contorted expression, previous rambling, and antsy pacing from foot to foot failed to speak exactly how intense his need to urinate truly was, he'd...Mnmdfer, happy thoughts, they'd be able to tell, Marvel can hold it, everything would be fine, happy thoughts! Happy. Thoughts.

His mantra was not working. In fact, it seemed to have the opposite effect, drawing yet another physically imposing tribute into the bathroom as well. Reutruse had started to stammer (which struck Keeth as strange in an unidentifiable way; he was used to being the stammerer, not the stammeree) out that it was okay, even though it was most definitely not okay. Nothing was okay about the current situation. He was supposed to be snugly nestled in the tub, like he had been on the way from Six to The Capitol. No one was supposed to come in at all, never mind come in to relieve themselves!

And then it was even less okay. It shouldn’t have struck him as so strange that some people actually wanted to use the bathroom for its intended purpose, but it did. He felt very, very small, hiding in his blankets, with the two daunting young men towering over his less and less adequate bathtub of protection. He couldn’t bring himself to say anything. The only thing that came to mind would actually have been more of a shrill scream, to the tune of GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GO AWAY LEAVE ME ALONE. He’d learned his lessons about screaming long ago. It was better to just consent to whatever hurt or humiliation was coming. He’d probably end up hauled up over one of their heads, or maybe one would take him by the wrists and the other by the ankles and they’d swing him to the count of three before launching him into the corridor. No, that wouldn’t do at all. He’d been thrown like that before, when bigger boys from Six had caught him one day and chucked him into a fountain outside the Hall of Justice. A filthy fountain. Birds pooped all over it, and for all he knew, tall, handsome boys who made his stomach feel funny and warm peed in it all the time. He’d thrashed and gasped as if it had been twenty feet of water rather than less than one, spurring laughter from the ones who’d tossed him and most other people in eye- or earshot.

He heard their words, even as he hid. Reutruse’s stuck in his head. He failed to grasp Marvel’s appraisal of the situation in the initial exchange, but then the boy from eleven protested, it’s not what it looks like. What did it look like? He had no idea. Was there something that one meek coward hiding in a bathtub that just happened to be in the same bathroom as a powerful hero who’d volunteered to save a similar boy looked like? If there was, it was well beyond his kenning. It was like they were speaking in code. Maybe there was a male universal language, hidden between the lines of normal words, which he was not privy to? Maybe it came along with puberty, but only if you got muscles and the need to shave more than once a fortnight as well?

It was when the words doing anything somehow passed through the fabric cocoon and reached his ears that he realized, to a degree, what it looked like. Keeth may have been naïve, but he was fairly observant, and probably too clever for his own good. It was part of always being at the edge of every group, always wearing the outside-looking-in perspective. He’d heard other boys talk about things they had done or would have liked to have done. He was vaguely aware that, for some reason, he was supposed to want to do those things too, whatever, exactly, they were. He had a sneaking suspicion that part of why he was so often the target of bullies was intricately tied to his lack of wanting to learn more about, never mind actually participate in, those activities. He was also reasonably sure that Reutruse and Marvel were talking about those things right now, only it involved him, and Reutruse, and…

… it made him wish the train would derail, right then and there, and consume them all in fiery doom.

He waited about three seconds, bracing himself for the screech of metal. Of course, the world was cruel, so it never came. That meant he had to go with Plan B. Plan B was really more instinctive than anything else. It involved hurtling over the side of the bathtub and dashing out of the bathroom as if he were being chased by a flock of birds that were attended by trackerjackers. He was fast, he knew that, and they both seemed pretty focused on peeing, so he had a good shot at escaping, in his estimation, and then they could do whatever they wanted and just leave him out of it.

Initiate Plan B!

He grabbed the side of the bathtub yet again, and this time got his legs beneath him, erupting with all the awkward grace of an antelope wearing work boots out of his blankety confines and over the edge of the tub. So far so good. He darted in the darkness, avoiding the silhouettes of the two other tributes, and realized, oddly, that his cheeks felt very warm. No time to think about that, even if he wanted to. Every second was precious, if he wanted to make a clean getaway. If either got their hands on him, he’d be as helpless to wriggle free as he had been with the Peacekeeper. Anxious adrenaline had burned the drugs out of his system, it seemed, which was good. He made it to the door unscathed and then grabbed the knob. He was free of the incredibly strange situation!

Or he would have been, if the door weren’t locked. Panic seized him, and rather than work the lock, he tugged and turned and grunted and then started to cry. He was trapped, trapped in the dark (the lightswitch was like, two feet away, but never mind that), and they were going to do who-knew-what to him. He felt very stupid all of three seconds later when Smart Keeth reappeared and undid the lock. Success!

The split-second he spent congratulating himself proved to be his undoing. Before he could pull the door open, someone much stronger than him pushed it open from without. He let out a yelp as he was driven back, and his legs got all tangled up, causing him to stumble and then fall, flat on his back with a very audible ”Oof!” of pain. It radiated up and down his spine, carrying through his limbs. The light pouring in from the doorway was blinding him, forcing him to squint, and even then the amount of time he’d spent in the dark bathroom made it impossible for him to identify the newest participant in this nightmarish experience as anything more than a black shadow in stark contrast to the whiteness that filled the doorframe.

Magna followed the Peacekeepr in silence. She briefly wondered if he'd stay with her for the remainder of her life before teh Games began. Deciding that whether he did or not, it wouldn't truly affect her in anyway, she let her gaze drop to his booted feet. So militaristic, and yet she'd bet money she didn't have that he didn't know the first thing of having to use the weaponry on his being. He was a Capitol Peacekeeper after all, and very little happened in the Capitol to call for Peacekeepers who could actually accomplish anything other than looking formidable. Even so, this particular one had hard enough time even attempting that. Perhaps he was terrified of how "radical" she was. Smirking, she looked back up at the back of his head, covered with the helmet of his kind. Breathing in through her nose, she decided to test him. Reaching up decisively, she tapped him on the shoulder. To his credit, he didn't jump, but turned quietly and looked at her. Even though his demeanor was calm, she could read his eyes. He was confused, and yes, she'd been right, a little scared. She stopped moving, causing him to also cease his forward trajectory.

"Yes, Miss Aerosta?" His eyes had calmed, but Magna was positive that underneath all the padding of his uniform he was tense, ready to run. She could have laughed, would have, if he'd even had the smallest idea of who she really was, deep inside. As it was, he knew the 'new' Magna, the Magna who pushed the old one deep down inside any time the pain started again. She let him sit for a moment, expectation and the smallest amount of worry settling in. She was patient and could wait out the awkwardness, so instead of responding she turned and walked slowly over to a window. She stood there, and crossed her arms softly across her chest. The Peacekeeper shuffled his foot, obviously uncomfortable, and let a small cough escape his lips. A smile spread across Magna's face. The absurdity of it all. Shouldn't she be the one uncomfortable in his presence? Smiling feraly she turned and looked at him dead on. She felt more than saw his tension build. Then, in her sweetest voice possible, she made a simple request.

"I believe I need to use the restroom. Will you please show me the way?" She watched as the suited man untensed and expelled a breath. Seriously, what was she going to do? Stab him? A thought occurred to her, "Actually, you're dismissed." She wasn't sure if it would work, but it was worth a shot. The Peacekeeper stood for a second, obviously slightly confused, "I can't go anywhere, we're on a bullet train. Besides, I have to be on air in 3 minutes." He wasn't moving and she was almost positive that she couldn't pull of what she'd planned, then another thought, "I want privacy. So shoo." As she had in her interview, she kept her voice level, knowing that even the slightest change in vocal patterns cued people to emotions that weren't always necessarily there. Another minute passed as the two looked at one another, then the Peacekeeper looked sidelong as if listening to and concentrating on something that Magna couldn't hear. Nodding once, curtly, he turned and left the room.

Magna's eyebrows raised as she watched him retreat away from her. He'd obviously been given some order by the Gamemakers. She may not be on Panem LIVE yet, but she'd be damned if she didn't think they had her on watch somehow. The spider muttation in her room had told her as much. She made a mental note to undress subtly, knowing that it didn't really matter after all the time with the stylists, but for her own peace of mind.

Clearing her thoughts, she started heading towards the dining car. As she made her way along the cars, a few sounds caught her attention. She heard some high pitched squeaking, then two more manly voices. Interest slightly piqued, she wandered to the door the sounds were coming from. If there was an alliance being made, she wanted to hear it. She needed every tiny bit of information she could get if she was going to win. She listened intently, a scowl crossing her face as she craned her neck back to give the door a look that dripped of, "What the...?"

She put her hand on the knob then to steady herself as she leaned on it to listen better, on some level curious of what was really happening in the community restroom. She heard some clamoring about, and something that sounded like grunts of exertion giving way to helpless whimpers as the doorknob jiggled in her hand. Someone was breaking the rules, it was obvious. It sounded as though two of the larger guys had gotten a hold of one of the weaker ones or even a girl. Not that she really cared about the Games rules, but she did have morals and that just wasn't fair. They weren't even to the house yet, disgusting pigs. It was probably the Careers and that Tyke kid or something. Her eyes narrowed as she realized that she recognized the whimpers. Well shit Keeth. Magna looked skyward briefly, What have you gotten yourself into? She heard the lock click and without a hesitation pushed the door open with all her strength. Rules and stoicism be damned, no one, and she meant no one was allowed to hurt Keeth if she was around.

As the door flew open a yelp and movement pulled her line of sight to the crumpled Keeth flailing backwards to the ground. She watched him hit the ground, then looked at the two figures standing behind him. Mild surprise hit her as the light from the doorway shone past her and illuminated the men. The only outward show of this surprise was her eyebrows raising ever so slightly as she looked from one man to the other, then to the boy, and flicked the light on. Now that she could fully see them all, she assessed the situation. Reutruse, the guy who stands up for the little man but doesn't give a thought to how the people who care about him feel. Marvelos, the one who caused a twinge of pain and tight aching in her chest that she didn't want to name or remember . And Keeth. Enough said.

A tiny smile crept onto her lips she looked down at the third, letting a softness fall over her features that was rarely seen. Arching a pretty eyebrow, she set aside her amusement and the softness was gone again. "Did you just want to prove me wrong?" She asked him not unkindly, then looked at the two larger boys. Again, without raising her voice or adding any venom what-so-ever, she continued "You know the rules. Don't mess with the other Tributes, especially not the defenseless ones, before the Games." Stepping forward so that Keeth was behind her, Magna's tiny body only stood about shoulder height on the other boys. "I know first hand what they do to you for breaking their precious rules," she stated matter-of-factly, "You boys won't like it." She was not threatening them or being menacing in any way, as she shrugged to punctuate her sentence. It was as though she were stating they couldn't wear her shoes because they wouldn't like 3 inch heels.