Author's Note; A quick one-shot for #144, Five Minutes of Fame, from SneverusSnapers' forum oneshot challenge. Yes, it's short. But hey, I'm the author and this is a one-shot; most one-shots are short. Enjoy.
And the crowd goes wild.
Corny, yes, but it is exact to what happens.
The citizens of the Capitol fill the audience. You can almost feel the excitement radiating from them. The air is suffocating with humidity. How these people bare it whilst wearing outrageously eccentric and ridiculous outfits beats me. As I take my steps onto the stage, a collective gasp of silence comes from the audience, followed by applaud. No, applaud is too quiet and simple a word to describe. Let me rephrase: and the crowd goes wild. It's almost as if my mere appearance is enough to untame these stuck-up know-it-alls into becoming the feral beasts they truly are.
I give them a smile.
A sweet, prolonged smile.
Oh, how foolish these people are. Them, in their animal furs and surgically altered bodies. Their odd accents, enunciating the vowels and ending their sentences high pitched, as if asking a question. It cannot be fathomed, the ridiculous standards Capitol citizens portray. Any they fall for me, a victor. All because I know how to look after myself and hold an axe. Anyone can do that, anyone at all. By chance, I just happened to be the one reaped.
They expect me to be absolutely amazing. Perfect. A role model. I am their victor, the one who survived the Hunger Games. Only a few minutes ago did Snow himself offer me a chance at getting plastic surgery. It will renew your features; make you beautiful, he said. Hell. I'm not changing anything about me. They want me to be their mascot in district seven, my home. To be the one who has visited the Capitol and come home unscathed. The victor; an outcast.
But they don't know.
No one is perfect after surviving the Hunger Games. Not even close.
I hide my rambling thoughts as I wave to the raging crowd, presenting them with a façade of complete joy. How they eat it up. Honestly, the Capitol loves me. I myself though, do not love me at all. How can I love me after all the blood on my hands? I blow a kiss in the direction of a cute young man in the audience. The cheers only get louder. So this is what it's like to feel famous, I think.
All these innocents around me.
They have no idea what's coming.
And, in theory, it's their fault. Directly, no, they didn't do anything. But by supporting Snow and his accomplices, the rest of us have fallen behind in the dust, left to starve in the districts. How about we take a handful of Capitol citizens and dump them in a place like district seven. Or worse, district twelve. Let's see how they feel after a few weeks of hard labour and malnourishment. That'll be the day.
There have been two rebellions already. The first a complete fail, the second oh so close; for a moment there, I thought we may have stood a chance. And for a few years now, these plans have been put in place. To start a new rebellion. To end everything. No one on earth deserves to live the way we do, in the districts. There is no deed so bad that could send a whole group of cities into poverty. I guess, that is, until the Capitol evolved to what they are today. So high-and-mighty, they are.
Yes, I was reaped.
But that reaping, it was rigged.
I am here for a reason.
The endless cheers and cries from the crowd still envelop me as I saunter across the stage. It's almost as if I can feel Snow caressing my cheek for portraying the perfect victor. This is exactly what he wants. He needs this. He feasts off the deaths of the tributes and takes pride in the one remaining victor.
And there is always a victor.
Too bad, though. Because this year, the rebels and I have planned something.
Without a Victor, what happens to the Capitol citizens? What happens to the Gamemakers? To Snow? Without a Victor, all hell breaks loose.
Subtly, I ease my left hand – the one I prefer to hold weapons with – down slightly into the pocket of my cardigan. Slowly, oh so slowly, I retrieve the short, yet sharp, pocket knife. Fortunately for me, the pocket is beside my hand and no one has noticed the minor movement. My fingers curl around the handle, gripping it tightly. It feels as if time slows down whilst I painstakingly slowly flick the knife out from its place in the pocket knife.
I let my gaze fall over the Capitol before me, savouring the fame of being a Victor. It's fame for all the wrong reasons, but fame nonetheless. They're all so unsuspecting. None would last a day once the rebellion takes place, none at all. The knife feels cold and I work hard to keep it hidden from the view of the peacekeepers either side of the stage. In the corner of my eye I see Caesar Flickerman – how ever old he is now – edging his way towards me, preparing for the Victor interview.
It's now or never.
In one quick, utterly swift motion, I bring the knife up to my throat. No, I don't hesitate. No, I don't reconsider. I simply let out a menacing, cackling laugh, before slitting my throat, signing my death warrant. My death as a Victor. This death that has been planned for years; we've all known I would do this. I've already said my goodbyes, no need to worry. It's what happens after my death that is unknown.
As a victor, I have had five minutes of fame.
And as my vision darkens and I feel myself falling, I know.
My five minutes, my fame, my death, broadcast on live national television across the whole of Panem.
It will lead to something far bigger than ourselves.
My friends, what we have planned for years is now in action.
I am dying, but with a smile on my face, for I know.
The rebellion that is soon eminent will change the world as we know it, for the better.