The excitement in the Capitol tells it all. The shouts of pure glee and the odd flying of wine corks show the mood that everyone is feeling. Every Capitol citizen that is. The people in the Districts just watch in fear, a tight feeling in there chests, especially the ones that will have family on the screen in a few minutes. But the Capitol people couldn't care any less. They just want the bloodshed, to watch as the tributes rip each other's hearts out.
The tension down in the catacombs is un-earthly. You can feel it in the muggy air of the underground hallways. The gleaming glass tube, polished perfectly. The arena still yet unseen by the tribute's eyes. No tribute seems to be one hundred percent happy, some of the careers seem up to the challenge but not in any way happy.
"Shaymus, would you like some food," a voice says from catacomb 19, where young Shaymus Ferin from 6 and his stylist sit waiting.
"No thank you," replies the 15 year old kindly. "I couldn't possibly eat at this time." Which is exactly true. If at any point Shaymus is nervous, his stomach would regurgitate everything it contains, Shaymus couldn't possibly risk it at this very moment. Instead he sits down on a leather fabricated couch, his stylist sitting beside him tall.
"Don't be nervous, you will do just fine," Shaymus' stylist tells him, with a toothy smile on his face.
"Thanks you," Shaymus replies, but he knows that the games for him will be much worse, more terrifying than ever. In his mind he knows that there will be twice the amount of tributes, which will mean twice the amount of blood and death. He figures that he'll just have to try two times harder.
A few catacombs over, a small tear falls from the youngest tributes cheek. Slowly coursing on her soft skin, and then ending on the floor. She grips the side of a plush fur couch, not focussed on anything else except for what is to come.
Today I am going to die, she thinks in her delicate mind, bringing more tears strumming down her face. Her stylist- a soft pink, plump woman- just sits there on the couch examining her oval shaped nails, not bothering to say a word to Thalia, the poor weeping girl.
Thalia hardly manages to slip a light clear poncho over her body before she is sent to the floor in tears. In her mind she knows that she is going to die, like 46 others in this game, this sick quell.
"I want my mother," Thalia says in a soft whisper, catching the attention of her stylist. She gets up from the sofa and then kneels beside Thalia. Reaching her hand out and lifting Thalia's chin up high in the air.
"You may see her again, if you win, which will most likely never happen since the youngest tribute to ever win a Hunger Games was a 14 year old," her stylist says not noticing the affect it is having on Thalia. "Plus there are twice the amount of tributes this year so it is even more unlikely that you shall win."
Thalia just stares at her clueless stylist for a moment, although her work is beautiful she has no social ability at all. Thalia's lip slowly starts to quiver again and she is sent into a new battle of tears and pain. "I'll never see my family again," she chokes out through her mess of tears. "District 3 won't get a victor out of me."
"Sweetie don't think like that, it may be true, but that doesn't mean you won't do well. You could end up pulling off a triumphant kill against someone important," her stylist says through her lipstick. Thalia takes this a little better, but not much. Inside she still feels the pain that is coursing through her veins, and she just wants this to be over soon.
Down the hall, two the left and down another hall at the final catacomb sits the girl with the highest training score this year. An 11. Young Denver of District 4 managed to pull it off. Something that nobody else out of the 47 other tributes did. And at such a young age of 16, it's to good to be true.
"So what are you going to do Denver?" her puffy haired stylist asks her. Denver thinks to herself for a moment, and then recalls what her mentor told her to do.
"I have to get to the cornucopia as fast as possible and get a trident," she says swiftly with much expertise.
"And if they don't have a trident?"
"Something with a blade that I can defend myself with," she says through a smile.
"Well done Denver," her stylist says casually. He kisses her on the forehead, "you are going to do just fine in these games. If I had to choose a victor myself, it would be you. You are smart, cunning, beautiful, victor material."
She gives him a thanking smile and then stands up to tighten the lace on her boot.
30 seconds, a computer like female voice says through every room in the catacombs. Alerting the tributes that they have to be in their tube in half a minute or else they will be blown to bits. Some tributes don't hesitate, they just walk in, ready to face every challenge that they may come across. Some hesitate, and sit on their couches and chairs for a little longer. Needing a little more time to put their mind in the proper frame that will aid them through. 20 seconds, the voice says again. More tributes file into their tube, including the four tributes from District 12, Thalia from District 9, and the remaining careers. The stylists give one last look to their tributes. Words of encouragement are said, kisses on the forehead are shared and touch-ups on coats and boots are given. 10 second. The final bit of tributes step into their tube, the small platform under them that will act as their pedestal in the games. Slowly the glass covers form over the tube, concealing the tributes in. Now no matter what nobody can escape. Now everyone is in the games, now blood will be shed for certain.
The tubes start to rise and the tribute's stomach's flip inside them. Careers stare dead ahead, some with small smirks on their faces, some with such intense looks on heir faces that they could kill someone with just a little glance. Ginny from District 7 bites her lip and closes her eyes, forcing the tears back, keeping them up tight and not letting them show on live television, because it is certain that she is on a screen somewhere right now.
All of a sudden the tributes can't see a thing, just white and blurry vision. But their eyes adjust and they are stunned by what they see around them, except for one person that has his vision focused on the golden horn straight ahead. Haymitch Abernathy of District 12.