Hello everyone! The name's rlnintendo! If you're here, you probably read my last story, Lifestyle Changes: The 104th Hunger Games. If not well you're in luck. Just click my name up in the corner and check it out! This is the sequel that story. Again, this is another SYOT, so start sending in those tributes (the form for which is on my profile.) Down below is a snippet of my writing, so you can get a sense of it if you're too lazy to just read my other story.
-Head Gamemaker Dalton Ruiz, The Capital-
The fragile warmth of my fat cat penetrates my skin. Her soft fur tickles my finger tips as a stroke her back. "Oh, Madeline, how beautiful you are." I stare adoringly at the scrunched up face of my feline, eyes squinty, purring. "If I were to ever lose you, I don't know how I'd manage. Oh, the thought of it all!" I pretend-faint backwards, hand on my forehead, when I hear the door crack open slowly behind me.
"Who is it? How dare you not knock!"
"I'm sorry, sir. I for-I forgot. Now, sir, you have a guest in the lobby, waiting for you."
"Send them up immediately. Is this about what I think it is?"
"I believe so, sir," he confirms as I swivel my chair around, just in time to see the small ginger boy exiting my office.
Madeline purrs. "I know sweetie, I know. Daddy's getting tired of this job too."
-Personal Assistant Timothy Heevers, The Capital-
I jump down the stairs as fast as I can manage without falling over my own feet. Can't disappoint Ruiz. Can't disappoint Ruiz. Flinging open the double doors to the lobby, I pant a sigh of relief. She's still here. She's still here. Calming down, I step behind the gray-haired woman and lightly tap her shoulder.
"Oh, yes, it's you. Hello again. I'm here to see the Head Gamemaker," she states, matter of factly, light curls bobbing up and down with each opening and closing of her jaw.
"Yes, I know, ma'am. You told me that before. He's ready for you now."
"Wonderful, thank you. I presume I should go this way?" she says, pointing to the stairs I came down.
"Oh, no. You can take the elevator. It's right over there," I casually correct, pointing to the metal doors.
"Thank you. And what may I call you should I see you again?"
"My name's Timothy. Call me Tim."
"Well thanks again- Tim," she adds before clicking the elevator up button.
-Louise Correlim, The Capital-
I ride the elevator in silence. Upon entering the vast room one calls an "office" the first thing I notice is the back of a swivel chair. Of course. Like one of those old-timey movies. The office is a large oval, shrouded in maroon, black, purple and brown. The intricately designed carpet rests under my feet and I politely knock on the door, to signify that I'm here.
"I knew you were here," a voice croaks. "No need to accentuate your presence." The black chair spins around revealing a graying man, possibly my age, likely a decade younger, maybe. A salt and pepper beard layers his chin and a mustache sits above his lip. He wears a purple robe, embroidered with gold. "Tell me your name. And why you are here."
"I'm Doctor Louise Correlim. I...heard about your job request and I believe I found the perfect candida-"
"Your name. It seems...familiar. Where may I have heard of you?" he inquires, an air of uncertainty lingering in his voice.
"Well, recently I served as doctor and surgeon for our current victor, Geneva Rawthorne."
"Yes, yes, now I remember you. Never expected that one to win my games. Ha ha ha ha ha. Shows me that I'm losing my luster if someone as worthless as that can kill that crazy little child from One, what was his name? Marble?"
"Obsidian."
"Right, Obsidian. He was quite an interesting character. Anyway, who is this candidate you speak of?" he asks, returning to our previous topic, stroking his fat white Persian cat. "I'm interested."
I stare at him quizzically. He really can't tell what I'm about to say? Avoiding eye contact, I state: "Well, sir, we already spoke of her. Geneva Rawthorne. She really-"
"Why would I want that to be my apprentice? Have you lost your marbles, Doctor?" The Head Gamemaker stares at me, confused and perturbed by my suggestion. "Did you see how she tripped over her own feet? She's an idiot."
"Check your facts, sir. Look at what she accomplished." I extend a long, bony finger towards the papers cluttered over his desk, contrasting the polish of the rest of the room.
"Show me." I walk up and trudge along the fancy carpet, finally stopping beyond the fine wood desk, shadowing the Gamemaker. Reaching around him, I pull out Geneva's crisp file. Luckily, it looks exactly like mine from the hospital.
Pointing at one of the lines, I say, "She killed several people sir. Cyrilla Nexwell of 9. Simpson Parkas of 11-"
"He ran away from her and tripped into a river, then drowned."
"But she was threatening enough to scare him and cause him loss of focus. And she killed the expected victor, Tamri Willar, from 8. She's got the credentials, sir."
"Fine then. Bring her to me."
"But she's back home. She catches the train here tomorrow." I stare at him, unsure.
His eyes lock with mine. "Bring her to me as soon as possible. You may go now."
I hope you guys liked that! If you enjoyed it enough to send a tribute into my games, it'd be appreciated wholeheartedly. Remember, try to make them original and unique. We all know that nobody likes having "The Orphan Games." Oh, and if you submitted a tribute or submit on eventually, the accepted list will be on my profile as well. Nobody likes a rule breaker, after all. So get moving people! Chop chop!
