What Are The Odds?
He stood amongst everyone else, waiting with a sickening anticipation. Every year it was the same, nervousness, horror, relief. All necessarily in that order. But he had gotten used to it. Even though for the last thirty years he had no longer been eligible it still gave him the fluttering, ominous feeling in his stomach. And this year was special, this year was the second Quarter Quell. A whole twist on the Games that would receive an even bigger and better response of entertainment from the Capitol. And it was with this thought he clenched his fists. He felt the tiniest twinge of pity when thinking about the destined tributes, but knew as he stared at the youthful and determined faces of the children around him he could hardly suppress the thought for long. Nearly everyone would love to represent their district in the Games, having been trained specially - and illegally - in their childhood to prepare for it. It was why volunteer's were so common, and why they had been banned. He wondered how people even found it the slightest bit appealing. 90% chance of dying brutally and the majority were hoping to be picked. To be perfectly honest the district's odds were slightly raised in favour, being fairly wealthy than others and much harder to beat, but the confident and intoxicated smirks on such naive faces made his heart sink. Over his fifty years of living he had never understood why anyone was so eager for it. Looking over the young boys and girls he reminded himself of how he had never been picked himself, how he would be dead right then instead of alive and breathing. Over fifty years was good for any man to reach, like a personal milestone they could say they had lived fully. He vaguely remembered as a small boy, the life he had before the Hunger Games. He only remembered the war and the fights, the Dark Days which had been ongoing for a small part of his childhood. He never remembered before any of that, how the world had been prior to the rise of President Snow. It had probably been a much sweeter life than this one, at least. One he wished he could reminisce. Some people did remember, those who lived over sixty. There weren't many but there sure were some much more than residents of other districts. You'd be lucky to pass the age of forty.
The mayor made his appearance, starting off the while 'ceremony' as he put it. After a boring speech he had no interest in listening to and the list of victor's names being read out in honour the escort stepped in as she usually did.
With her usual politeness and mockingly effervescent clothes she announced. 'Happy Hunger Games!'
He smirked as he always did at the phrase. Labelling the occasion like it was something everyone should be celebrating.
'And may the odds be ever in your favour.'
That one he detested even further. The odds couldn't ever be in your favour if you were dead.
'Now, this is no ordinary Hunger Games. For the second Quarter Quell, twice the number of tributes will be participating. And, it seems that in a recent twist of events, the rule about age restriction has been dropped for this special occasion on order by President Snow.'
The whole court gasped in unison, an unknown and previously unconcerning rule now sparking horror in the faces of the adults. He noticed only now that the two glass balls were filled even more than usual with numerous slips of papers. Of course his presidency would want to royally send even more people to their deaths, in all times of life. He observed for the first time, almost a relieved expression flitter across a few faces, youths who knew there was a slighter chance than usual. Most of them however were looking resentful at the odds it was putting them in. Some of the adolescents looked disappointed or resentful. As the escort reached a hand into the sea of papered doom it suddenly struck him that he was amongst the chosen. For the first time in years, it was a possibility he would compete in the Games. He wasn't worried, however. A few of the poorer teenagers were in there multiple times due to their tesserae. He made his own way easily enough with making various luxury items, and had never needed the extra help from the tesserae when he was younger.
She read the name of two females, one youngish but still an adult, the other clearly still a child, no more than eighteen. The escort soon made her way to the boys, where she read out the name of a man he knew but whom annoyed him greatly. 'Danny Pink' as they called him, was an important manufacturer that made most of the products for the Capitol. He was also a favourite amongst the ladies, although he had no idea why. A selfish thought but one he couldn't repress entered his mind, and for a second he was the tiniest bit glad Danny was competing in the Games. Just because it would give him a much clearer head and a lesser reason to use curse words at him for the rest of his life. His attention snapped back to the stage, where the escort was getting ready to pick the next male tribute. Her hand reached farther and farther until it nearly hit the bottom, where she plucked a piece of paper and stood once again by the podium. He craned his neck to see the adults around him looking doubly fearful for both themselves and their children, more than usual. An impregnated pause settled on the crowd as the escort pursed her lips and finally read the name.
'Basil Disco.'
It was a moment before he even realised it was his own name she had called out. Everyone around him turned his way, pairs of relieved and accusing eyes staring at him. He didn't feel uncomfortable, in fact he didn't feel anything except shock. All his life he had avoided the Games, and now at this stage in his life, he was closer to death in more ways than one. His greatest attribute however, was clearly his face. He showed no emotion whatsoever, although his independently angry eyebrows were glaring at everybody who looked at him. His face made everyone think he was always strong, unfeeling. That he was someone to be reckoned with. It came in useful sometimes in the factory, and perhaps it would too in the Games. He silently made his way onto stage, to where his fellow tributes were standing. He thought he saw Danny wince slightly as he walked over, the smallest of smirks curling his upper lip. Again, maybe it was his face. Too grumpy and threatening for its own good. The wishes of a new life without Danny Pink flew away into the air like breath on a mirror. Now he'd have to put up with him for the rest of the Games. Maybe even kill him. It must have been his own karma playing a twisted joke on him.
He had no doubt he could kill someone, but it didn't mean he wanted to. He was still half expecting someone to volunteer in his place yet reminded himself that that policy was banned after a too confusing charade of people literally pushing their way onto the stage. Pathetic, in his opinion but at least now he'd accepted his fate. He wasn't scared, just a little tense. And from the way the other tributes looked, especially Danny, he was the calmest one there. They were all made to shake hands, and then the anthem played once again like a broken record in his head. Peacekeepers took hold of them, ushering them into the Justice Building. He didn't know why they clutched so tightly to them, like they were at risk from being killed before their prime.
He sat in a room, alone. The decor was much more luxurious, chandeliers, throws over dainty couches and intricately designed carpet. Most of it he knew as his own work, in fact. He never knew what really was shipped off to the Capitol and what stayed here for profit. That was typically Danny Pink's job. He was probably surrounded by family members right now, most of the tributes too. He had no one. His parents were dead, and even then he never really had any extended family beyond that. No brothers or sisters. Not even friends, due to his frosty personality and frequent bitter remarks. He had one once, however. A girl he'd intended to confess his love for but he'd been too late by the time the Games had taken her away from him. He vowed never to get as close to anyone again, despite the fact everyone as old as him had soon grown out of the age restriction. It still hurt him sometimes, but he had moved on. He could only remember her first name, too. Rose. Like the beautiful blood red flower. He hung his head, staring at the embroidered floor, thinking things through. He liked to think he was saving some young man from leaving his family and getting killed. He wasn't worth anything, after all. No one would miss him.
'This was it,' he thought, tapping his foot impatiently. This was the Games he was competing in. Despite his looming and inescapable death he had already come to terms with, he was quite fascinated with the Capitol. Not the people, certainly not those thrilled by the prospect of his death, but just how they lived. The rich buildings, expensive food, the appliances...it must all be so fanciful. The most he'd ever gotten to that was the intricately decorated lamplight in his bedroom and the red velvet coat he was currently wearing. He thumbed the fabric carefully, rubbing it comfortingly beneath his fingers in slow circles, concentrating his mind on the battle ahead of him. He would soon be on television, for the Capitol and all 12 districts to watch him kill mercilessly and end up with a spear in his belly by the end of it too. A peacekeeper entered the room, interrupting him from his dazed trance.
He walked out, the keeper herding him out to the train station with the other tributes. Instantly there were a crowd unseeable behind their camera's taking numerous photos. He hated every second of it, giving them all a glare that would surely send a nice message to the Capitol. He at last could step mercifully onto the shiny silver train he could almost se his reflection in, and gazed around him. It was indeed elaborate, elegant in its design and grandiose in its layout. There were several compartments, sliding doors leading into bedrooms and eating rooms. He raised his eyebrows at it all, overwhelming in its rich colour and his first thought was that it was almost too bright. His eyes felt like they had just looked directly into the sun and seen a myriad of vibrant colours. As the train started moving he made straight for a bedroom, where the hugest bed he ever saw was freshly laid with lily white sheets and stood proudly next to an unnecessarily wide wardrobe. He swept a hand over the soft, crisp sheets, feeling it ripple under his rough hands. He made an enthusing sound and promptly collapsed onto it, already crumpling the tight fitted sheets with a noise that sounded like landing in a pile of autumn leaves. He stretched across it relaxedly, his hands resting behind his head and observed the patterned ceiling.
So far of what he'd seen was enough to forget about his death, just to be ridiculously enthusiastic about the affairs of Capitol-style living, and something told him this was only a minuscule part of what it really was like living in splendour.