No one ever thinks to look up.

Those words, spoken from the plump, fake lips of Caesar Flickerman were nothing short of a curse. Perhaps it was Matthias' fault, revealing his talent of clinging to the trunks of trees, of woodwork, and a little bit of offensive talent — it all seemed like a good idea at the moment. The words heeded a warning that had led to the escape of his prey too many times. How often had he waited in the trees, dead silent, only to be caught because some stupid child dared to lift their gaze? It was probably for the best; as much as he wanted to win, he had three kills under his belt and was not eager for a fourth.

So, he resorted to travelling on foot, laying about traps with Hunter's expert critiques of 'no, move it to the right,' or 'I will slice your throat if you don't catch something.' Matthias hummed to himself as he crouched down at a nasty clearing, machete stained with the blood of the boy from Six. He took a seat, uncaring of the soggy grass, only glad for some sweet, sweet relief from the sun, which felt like it was setting his back aflame. How many were left? The bitch died from One, the boy from Four was as good as dead, and the Six bastard was bleeding out in a cave.

The guilt wasn't so bad if he pretended that he was always destined to be a killer. "Is that who I think it is?" Matthias' voice rang out, almost sing-song as he scraped his machete against his clothed thigh as a tribute approached him from behind. "{{user}}? I can tell by the sound of your footsteps."