• Next Hunger Games
    Our next Hunger Games is a little different than our previous ones. Called "Battle Royale," this Hunger Games will feature one lucky class to be sent to the Hunger Games together. Mr. Dressler's honors history class tried to ignite revolution in Panem. And for their trouble, they will be sent to the arena together. Join us by making a high school junior (16-17 years old) from District 11. See the Battle Royale Subforum for more information. We aim to start in December so now's the time to start developing your character!
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  • Credits
    Thank you to Suzanne Collins for the creation of Panem and The Hunger Games trilogy. And thank you for the following people who contributed to site design: Ring Wang: banner slideshow code, Revo: fixed sidebar code, Gem: site skin(s).

    And many thanks to Sixth Station members for their characters, posts, creativity and work. Thank you to everyone mentioned and unmentioned for the work put into making this site the great board it is.

Thank You

After four years, we have decided to close down Sixth Station. The site has meant so much to many of us who spent countless hours into our game. Thank you to everyone who has been a part of our game.

The 101-Fall Hunger Games are wrapping up. You have 24-48 hours to enter the final posts. Members can still post in the "History of Sixth Station" and the "Connection" forums.



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Claire Gryffen
 Posted: Mar 12 2011, 04:13 PM
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25-February 11 • 315 Moneys

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Claire sat on the uncomfortable cot in one of the rooms of the evacuation center. She had strewn her stuff about to mark her territory. Her measures weren't entirely necessary though; no one would want the cot after she dropped the oily, dirty engine on the white mattress. She wasn't in the cheeriest mood. The rain had forced her out of deep concentration on the fine piece of machinery that leaked oil on her resting place.

She had to lug the thing to the center and work on it there. Claire's bag of tools sat near the cot, and Claire reached into it from time to time to get wrenches, screw drivers, or other apparatuses. She didn't realize how odd she looked; she was fixing an engine on a bed. How lovely.
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Kristofferson Thornton
 Posted: Mar 13 2011, 07:51 AM
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Samantha


Kristofferson walked forward wearily as his younger sister, Kailey, clung to his soaked sleeve. Their older brother, Reynold, strode ahead of them next to their mother, who had her face in her hands. Her shoulders were shaking.

"Krissy, what's wrong with mommy?" The little girl looked up at him with green eyes. Their dad's eyes. Their dead dad's eyes.

It was clear their mother was crying, but Kristofferson still shook his head, flashing a smile.

"Nothing, Kay-Kay. Mommy's fine. Why don't you go with Reynold and find get something to eat, hm?" He moved his arm toward their brother, and she ran off to swing on his arm.

It was strange how cold he could be with everyone else but Kailey. Reynold had asked him about this before, but he hadn't been able to come up with an answer, and that annoyed him. He liked to think he had himself all figured out. But yet, he still lied for her even when he told himself that he never lied, never faked anything.

Kristofferson swerved away from the group, deciding he'd find them some cots. Not that he expected they'd be able to sleep well. From what he'd seen, the bed's were uncomfortable and the room was over-crowded. Oh well, it was better than sleeping at home where the water was up to your ankles.

The 15-year-old boy stepped into the room, walking forward quickly with his head down to a more-or-less quiet area. He knew there were people from the other Districts here, and he didn't want to have to look at them. Especially not those in the upper-crust of their hell hole. He didn't want to have to think about how much he wanted their lives, about how easily he'd trade everything he had to be them.

He shrugged off his sweater and lay it across one of the cots. He pulled three others closer, and dropped his bag and sister's coat on them. Though, Kailey would probably whine until she got to squeeze on with their mother.

Kristofferson finally stood up straight, looking around him. He was surprised -- no, intrigued -- to see the cot directly across from him was occupied by a large, oily engine. He opened his mouth, but stopped himself before speaking. He didn't know who the girl was, and it'd be against him to speak with her. No, it was best he just minded his own business. Though, he had been thinking about starting to work with metals, bending reeds and twig together just wasn't exciting anymore . . .


"...What's with the engine?" His voice croaked, he hadn't really wanted to say anything, it just kinda... came out.
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Claire Gryffen
 Posted: Mar 13 2011, 01:16 PM
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Claire was occupied with her work; she didn't notice anyone that came in or went out. For some reason, one of the cylinders wasn't firing, so she had to check the mechanics of it, make sure every part was in its place. This, to her, was more important than any people who came walking by.

So when she heard a voice, "So, what's with the engine?", she didn't entirely understand that he was referring to her (though she was the only person there who brought an engine with them). It took a few seconds for the realization that someone was talking to her to sink it. She looked up, and saw the boy who said it. Lower district. It was the eyes that she noticed second; they were big.

She looked down at the engine, then back up at him. Then down at the engine, and up at him again. She finally said, "Uh, it's broken. One of the cylinders isn't firing. And I got paid to fix it...so yeah. The rain makes things inconvenient." She smiled at him before returning to concentrating on the engine, half-hoping that he wouldn't interrupt her.

((lol she's so anti-social.))

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Kristofferson Thornton
 Posted: Mar 13 2011, 06:11 PM
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11-March 11 • 80 Moneys

Samantha


As soon as the words came out of his mouth, he knew he'd made a mistake. And the awkward pause that came after it was worse than this. Kristofferson wasn't sure if he should continue to speak to catch her attention, or if breaking off the conversation there would work best. But she narrowed his options down when she looked up. Now he couldn't pretend he hadn't spoken. He'd have to continue, as awkward and bad as he would make it be. Unless he got up to go eat. Yes, he'd do that in three, two --

Ugh, why couldn't you have just ignored me? he thought as she answered him. And it didn't help that she returned to her work. He felt almost obliged to continue the conversation, even though that made no sense. He felt almost in control of it, like he could steer it any way he wanted. He longed for that feeling, another one of those personality traits he'd rather hide from himself.

He looked at the girl as she continued working on the engine. Awkwardly, he stepped a few steps closer, peeking over to see it better. It looked pretty complex, especially when you followed one piece of the metal and saw how many others overlapped and twisted around it. Just looking at it made him want to pick up a bar and try to copy the complexity of it and mix and match to make something new. But no, he just watched.

"And...uh, how does it work exactly..." Kristofferson asked, still following the oiled machinery's parts, trying to figure it out in his head. "The cylinders and the firing, I mean."

He wondered what District she was from. He'd guess Three, with the inventions and electronics, but then again, he was always going with his twigs and plants, yet he was from Ten, which worked with livestock. Oh wait! Wasn't that part of a normal conversation path? You were supposed to exchange names, right? Then it wasn't so...strange? He wouldn't know, the only real conversations he's had were with people he'd known all his life. He was never really good with meeting new people.

"Oh, um, I'm Kris--uh, Kristofferson. From...Ten."
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Claire Gryffen
 Posted: Mar 14 2011, 05:20 PM
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25-February 11 • 315 Moneys

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She used her fingertips to follow the path of a piece of metal towards the heart of the engine. Just to make sure everything was mechanically right. She couldn't really test the engine here, without the mining cart it belonged to readily available. Again, she couldn't believe the indecency of the rain; she didn't want to fail this project. That would mean less money, and less money meant less food.

Then the boy walked closer, and Claire's eyebrows rose upward. Apparently, he wasn't done with her. Claire tried to hide her disappointment and continued moving her scarred hand along the metal part she was examining.

"And...uh, how does it work exactly..." Oh God. She hated these questions, because truth was, she didn't really know herself. She just knew how to fix them. He continued on to further explain his meaning, which didn't really help Claire at all.

She looked up, trying to figure out how to explain something she really didn't understand. (Well, she did, in a way, but not the "school" way. She hated school.)

What surprised her is that he looked uncomfortable as well. She thought he was extremely outgoing, but...maybe he was just...lonely? She wasn't a good judge of character and moods though, so she decided not to read into it.

He introduced himself. Kristofferson, District Ten. Animals. Claire never really understood animals at all. They weren't like the machines and contraptions she knew so well. How did you fix something that had a life of its own? Why couldn't they fix themselves when they broke legs or got sick?

She used her dirty, scarred hands to push back some annoying strands of hair in her face. "Claire Gryffen, District Twelve." Normal etiquette would have required her to extend a hand to shake, but Claire wasn't versed in normal etiquette, and no one would have wanted to shake her grimy hand anyway.

She looked down at the engine and said, "Um, well, it has to do something with fuel. Compression. Air flow. Pistons." She shrugged. "I just fix 'em. Don't know much science-y stuff about them."
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Kristofferson Thornton
 Posted: Mar 18 2011, 07:51 PM
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11-March 11 • 80 Moneys

Samantha


Kristofferson met her eyes with his. Eyes. His were brown, his mother's. One of the few things that she could stand looking at. Not that he particularly enjoyed staring at his hair: brown, thick, naturally messy so he had to force it to listen (he hated messes. Hate, not phobia.), exactly like his father's. Before he died, that is. His father was one of those things you just didn't bring up, conversationally or otherwise. Kailey hadn't even gotten to meet him, he'd been trampled to death a few months before she was born. What a hard time that had been for all of them. That's when they decided Reynold would need to take out tessarae, and he began actually working with the animals instead of just sitting on fence posts, talking to them idly. He hated his father for that.

The boy blinked, realizing he'd zoned out momentarily, letting his face flick through his emotions as he thought. A spark of sadness for Kailey and Reynold and their sacrifices, pride for his brother and mother for dealing with his death, both filtered through the anger and hatred he had toward his father. He shrugged, mostly to himself. It happened.

His brown eyes followed her hand to her hair, his gaze traveling over the scars. He had a few of his own, but mostly where he'd been waving the knives in the slaughterhouse around a bit too carelessly, mostly in his younger years. He figured hers were from working with metal and electronics -- she had to be in Three to have this knowledge for such machinery. He let a glare slip toward her. If he could live in any District, it'd be Three. His mother was born there, he even had an aunt or two and cousins living there. It was a good thing he wasn't entirely comfortable speaking with her, or harsher things would've happened. He was known to be cold and careless with his words.

Of course, he was taken aback when she said she was actually from Twelve. So much so that his mouth was wide, as were his eyes, and he had begun to sway with imbalance. How could she afford to have so many tools, such expensive things? He immediately looked back at her hands, now pondering on if the scars were actually from whippings for stealing.

Truth was, he didn't know much about the lower Districts. He figured they were all worse off than he was, having to steal their every meal, living on the streets. To be honest, on his many late night walks, he'd never once visited Districts 11 or 12. It'd been mostly 1 through 5. The ones where no one was worried about the Hunger Games, because some Career would volunteer themselves for you to get the spotlight.

Kristofferson finally composed himself. Well, if you could call him composed. Except now he held himself differently. His shoulders were straighter, his lip had a condescending curl to it, his chin held just a little more pointedly. Basically, everything he imagined in the higher Districts. If he was obsessed with anything, it was the Districts. Now that he knew she was less than him, he had no worries. Her opinion meant less than his in society than his, which was low enough for him. He immediately loosened, yet froze.

"I didn't think Twelve worked with such complex machines. Though, I understand that you don't understand the 'science-y stuff'. I'd expect only higher Districts to understand that." By his words alone you'd think he was being outright rude, but that was the complexity of Kristofferson. He still continued in his even tone, hinting at only slight interest, hints of emotions strewn across his face. He sounded almost innocent, like a small child using a bad word they picked up from a parent without even knowing what it meant.

"So, what else do you work on there? Just engines? It's not yours though, or for a car, right?" He inched closer again, his eyes darting from the shining machinery, to her thickly scarred hands, to the bag of tools. There were a few poking out, and he let his mind mull over what each of them might do. I'll have to save up for some tools, then, he thought, wondering what shifts he could pick up for extra money.
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Claire Gryffen
 Posted: Mar 19 2011, 06:37 AM
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25-February 11 • 315 Moneys

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District Twelve, the lowest in the minds of most people. Claire knew that was the general opinion, but she didn't think it was true. In the people of her district she saw more bravery, more honor, more dignity than in any other district. She was proud of the people, even though they were poor and down-trodden. She thought them more noble even than the clean, happy-faced people of the higher districts; they didn't know what it was like to stare death in the face every day.

When he said she wouldn't understand the science because she was from a low district, she wasn't surprised or even very angry. It wasn't in her nature to get angry easily; it wasn't in her to even speak to people she didn't know. So she looked down at the engine, feeling a bit like her pride had been deflated.

"So, what else do you work on there? Just engines? It's not yours though, or for a car, right?" Claire's fingers gripped the metal edge of the engine. She didn't like feeling lower; she didn't like talking; she didn't like any of this. She said, "Um, it's for a mining cart. And...people from higher districts bring refrigerators, air conditioners, other stuff like that."

Higher districts. Why couldn't people just get over prejudice? Why were people so terribly social and judging? She would never understand it.
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Zacharius Fletcher
 Posted: Mar 22 2011, 03:03 PM
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He nodded slowly, his face falling from a semi-forced, very awkward looking smile to a mix of embarrassment and exasperation. He'd done it again. He'd insulted someone involuntarily. His arms flew out with his palms spread as he stood and spun before sitting on the edge of his own cot. It was one of those movements you just did when you were angry and tired and ashamed. His mind traveled back through the conversation, but he kept mixing things up. At the end, he just exhaled deeply and slumped forward, just concentrating on her scarred hands.

He remained silent for awhile, just zoning in and out, coming back to the sound of people walking around and the clang of metal on metal. He was wondering if the conversation was considered over now and if he should just leave when he felt a sharp pain in his thigh.

"...Ouch?" Kristofferson reached into his pocket, and pulled out about a foot of coiled wire. He sat with it sitting lightly on his palm and couldn't for the life of him figure out where it had come from. He back tracked through his day, and it finally hit him. The wind had blown the exterior of one of the smaller chicken coops into the hen house, and he'd been told to use the bit of extra twine to mend whatever holes had been made and secure it to the ground. He'd forgotten all about it as his mother rushed him, Reynold and Kailey out of the house, dragging with her a stack of waterlogged photos.

Still feeling a bit flustered over his misstep in words, he bent over the chicken wire. His thin fingers manipulated the thin metal with ease, but he still had an expression of extreme difficulty. His brows were furrowed and his mouth down-turned in a grimace. It was no wonder that he had poor eyesight.

Within a few minutes, after flicking his brown eyes up to see Claire, he was finished. When you just looked at it, the wire looked tangled. But that was the point of it. It drew your eyes deep into the mess, forced you to trace the lines and patterns. He held it up, beaming with pride as he did every time he fashioned something. A second later he realized that she had most likely been ignoring him the past few minutes.

"Uhm... Claire?" He started, leaning forward as if to go to tap her shoulder, but he withdrew sharply and awkwardly. He cleared his throat, his voice a hoarse whisper for a second. "This is, well, uhm, for you, I guess." He made no motion to give it to her, but instead stared at the mass of shining silver, wondering if she'd recognize it as a miniature engine, not unlike the one she was working on now.

"And, well, sorry." He added quickly, his arm stretching out to finally hand it over. He rarely gave away things he'd made, though sometimes some of the older men working in the slaughterhouse or feeding the animals would as him to fold some grass together to see what came out and he'd give it to them with slight difficulty. Other than that, he'd only ever made dolls for his sister to play with, and when he was angry, mock-ups of his father that he'd sqaushed with his heel like the cows had done to him years ago.

*Woops, sorry, wrong account. Let's just pretend I posted with Kristofferson, haha.
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Claire Gryffen
 Posted: Mar 23 2011, 11:35 AM
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25-February 11 • 315 Moneys

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He turned around, looking upset, and flung himself down on his cot. Claire was startled a little and watched him for a few more moments. He sighed and his eyes fixated, but Claire couldn't tell on what. Already, she was losing interest, as she assumed he had. Not many people would want to talk to a girl from the Twelve, even if she could fix engines and other equipment. It just wasn't considered special or important. Even people from Eleven or Ten could lord it over the scum of Twelve.

She simply pushed these thoughts out of her mind. These uncomfortable realizations were eclipsed by repetition of all the ails that could befall an engine. Holes in the cylinders, piston misfiring, misplaced parts, improper parts... Clank, clank, clank. She worked, not once glancing back at the boy. It would just confuse or upset her again; she wasn't meant to figure out people, only machines.

"Um...Claire?" Her head shot up. She looked across at him, surprised that he still wanted to talk to her. He looked happier now, and there was something in his hand. Claire stared hard at it, trying to figure out what it was. It was made of uninsulated wire, but she couldn't understand the pattern. She furrowed her brow, concentrating on it all the more.

Every time she observed an object, she would force it to reveal itself with the sheer will of her mind. She wanted to see what it was, how it worked, what it's purpose was. It took her a few moments, but she recognized it. A miniature model of the engine she was fixing. But what for? For what purpose?

"This is for you, I guess." Claire blinked three times before she registered the words. For her? She frowned, but not an unhappy frown, one that was just perplexed. She dropped her wrench; it clanged against the metal engine, the sound ringing in her ears. She leaned forward, but didn't take it out of his hands. That was...rude? She didn't know what to do.

"And, well, sorry." Claire asked, "Sorry for what? I mean, you did interrupt me while I was trying to fix the engine, but that's not that important. Not really." She hoped she hadn't made it sound like it was important. It was, but she didn't want to offend him. She hated trying to get her point across.

She wanted to take the engine, but she would wait until he handed it to her. That was...proper (she hoped).

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