“You have ten minutes to present your chosen skill.”
Tomorrow, every tribute would put on their best show. Static mind, a heavy-handed haze aided by a bottle of hooch brought from Twelve -- Mahlon swirled around something like nostalgia. He had really outdone himself in his own session all those years ago -- he’d made those Gamemakers fuckin’ sick. He patted the trunk of a tree, pouring out a bit of liquor in offering for safe passage. They didn’t look hungry tonight, not for flesh as rotten as his own.
Deeper he pressed into the unholy hour of the night, until he was engulfed in this curated garden, fake like everything else is this city. In the baptism of moonlight trickling down between branches, Mahlon closed his eyes, face upturned, a private expression of something like intimacy. But he was not alone here. Paper bag crinkled, contents swishing as he turned, eyes meeting bright ones staring back like orbs.
“Careful,” he grinned. “There are dangerous things lurkin' around here at night.”
