Chapter Two: An Introduction
A weary-eyed man sifted through the piles of letters, obviously losing interest in his work. For three endless days, he had read over the contest submissions, throwing out dull ones and keeping decent additions. The young Gamemaker had made hardly any progress; the "trash" pile towered over the useful collection menacingly.
He weaved his hand through his thin, blonde hair. His brain felt fried. He desperately needed sleep, but this was too important at the moment. Just because he was the newest addition and basically an intern, the more accomplished Gamemakers had voted him into the duty.
The man was having second thoughts about them.
Suddenly, a screen flickered to life at his left. The oddly happy face of President Snow appeared, beaming at the exhausted Gamemaker.
"Any progress yet, Tawlen?" Snow asked. Tawlen sighed, rubbing his eyes.
"Minimal. Hardly any of these ideas are original," he answered. "They're all suggesting the same things: hidden Cornucopia in a vast landscape of nature, no available weapons, and a whole list of other boring, overused things. The best thing so far is an underground maze, but we can't do that without four years of preparation."
President Snow rubbed his temples. "I expected as much. I see now that this contest should have been held much earlier."
Tawlen nodded, picking up a still-sealed envelope. "I'll continue reading them, President. I will inform you of anything interesting."
Snow grinned widely. "Thank you for the update, Tawlen!" And the screen faded.
The optimistic look on the Tawlen's face disappeared as well. He dropped his head onto the desk with a loud donk. Groaning slightly, he blindly ripped open the letter, bringing it to eye-level.
His eyebrow lifted as he read the chicken-scratch writing. These people have obviously never practiced calligraphy, Tawlen thought absently. But as he continued reading, a glimmer of hope entered his mind.
"This is good," he said aloud. "It makes sense… But there isn't much time left." The statement was true. Thinking that an idea from the citizens would be easy to incorporate into an already-made arena, President Snow and the Gamemakers had given out the contest opportunity with roughly one month for building. However, not many of the ideas were usable, and the ones that worked would take years to establish.
The lean man thought back to his two true years of internship. How quickly had they fixed the arena when the train rammed into it that year? he wondered. Four weeks, counting the forced rejuvenation of the wildlife and vegetation. It was a speedy project.
Excitement crept into his mind. He quickly contacted the President again via video-call.
"Yes?"
"I've got one."
The older man's voice lit up. "Splendid! E-mail me a copy, and tell me your plan for it to be built."
As he retyped the letter for Snow to read, he spoke, "Do you remember the museum sort of thing that got abandoned several years ago? The big building with all those old-time artifacts in it?"
"From sixty years ago? I wasn't even around for that one."
"Yes! It's perfect for this!" shouted the blonde man. "I'm sending now."
Soon, both of their faces were lit with the same expression.
"I agree. We'll have a short meeting to confirm this one's use, then, hopefully, go to constructing it. Thank you, Tawlen."
Chuckling heartily, President Snow signed off. Strange man, Tawlen confirmed as he stretched, stood up, and left his puny office for the meeting.
xXxXxXx
"You'll never win the Games if you can't even beat me!" Cursor shouted to his younger sister, Aurelia. She grimaced, bringing her sword back into a menacing pose.
"And you won't make it back home if you keep mocking me!" she countered, slashing at his neck with the blunt wooden blade. The two had been sparring for thirty minutes, both quite tired but refusing to give in. It was a daily contest.
Cursor swiped again at her thigh as she leaned left to avoid the blow. Aurelia hit her brother's wrist with the hilt, causing him to drop his weapon. She swiftly kicked it away, bringing the edge of her own sword to his jugular. "Dead," she announced.
"Cheap shot," Cursor muttered, picking up the wooden weapon. "Hardly fair. And you won't be able to hold a real sword like that."
Aurelia waved her hand, a motion to brush off his comment. "At least I would get a hold of a sword. You'd be dead before you get five feet away from a platform."
"Sure, sure. But I can run faster than you, slowpoke." With that, Cursor dashed off in the direction of their home.
"You didn't even put the stuff away!" Aurelia yelled. Grumbling, she kicked his sword underneath a bush, then carefully placed hers inside a different one.
Aurelia slowly made her way back home, not caring that this confirmed the earlier statement from Cursor. She let down her curly, strawberry-blonde hair, which she wore up in a ponytail for training. Many other District Two walked past and waved, but she hardly returned the favor with a quick nod of the head and a tense look.
"Aurie!"
The freckled girl focused again to find her younger sister, Macra, rushing over to her. "Aurie, guess what!" the young girl repeated.
"What is it?"
"I made dinner! Well, part of it, anyway. I made the salad," she said, grinning widely.
Aurelia nodded. "Good job. Tell Mom that Cursor's got dish duty."
"Why?"
"'Cause I just kicked his butt at practice." Macra giggled and ran back inside, screaming her head off that 'Aurie kicked Cursor's butt again.'
xXxXxXx
Willow Shern grinned as she chipped the last unneeded shred of wood from her carving, which was a tiny, slightly misshapen dove. She was no professional carver, but she was stubborn enough to get it done.
Proud of the wooden bird, she scooted away from the scattered shavings and got to her feet, stretching as she did so. Willow weaved a path through the forest, noticing that the sunset was already halfway gone. The lumber workers had long since gone—Saturdays usually ended work early.
Eventually, the tall brunette reached her backyard, a small outcropping with short saplings and a puny flower garden. Her mother was hunched over the garden with a watering can.
"I'm back, Mom," Willow said cheerfully. She hadn't been gone long, but the reason for her short departure was understandable. Her father had been drinking again.
"Good, good," her mother said, smiling at the fifteen-year-old. "Could you bring me the hose? The can just emptied."
"Look what I made." Willow humbly handed her the dove before grabbing the hose from the side of the house, though "shack" would be a more appropriate name.
"It looks very sweet, Willow. Whittle a bit more off his left side, and it'll be perfect." Willow nodded. Her mother always noticed the little details, scrutinizing with well-aged brown eyes. Though Willow had similar brown eyes, she knew that her mother had a special talent.
As she shaved the side of the dove, Willow whispered, "Is Dad asleep?" Her mother nodded solemnly.
"Out like a light. He's had a long day." But they both knew what that truly meant.
xXxXxXx
"Lark Kaine! Get your scrawny butt back here!"
A little imp of a boy scrambled away from the older boy, who was currently covered in a mixture of mud and leftover potatoes. "I'm gonna kill you for this one, Dwarf!"
Lark sprinted away from the scene of the crime: a trip wire, a steel bucket, and the junk-smothered fifteen-year-old. Snickering, he sped through town, his semi-long brown hair flying madly behind him. People saw him and thought nothing of it; they knew Lark was up to no good. It was a daily thing.
The young teen fled until he found a tree tall enough to hide in. He pulled himself up, which was relatively easy—he was extremely small in stature.
Several of the muck-covered boy's friends searched for Lark, albeit unsuccessfully. He resisted the urge to throw branches at them and tried his best to wait silently.
"Hey! There he is, up in the tree!" someone yelled, pointing to the hazel-eyed trickster. He kicked the tree trunk.
"Oh, crap."
And so the pursuit began, Lark running like an antelope, and nearly nine upperclassmen chasing him vehemently. He cackled maniacally, as he knew they could never come near to catching him. Eventually, Lark outran the older boys, leaving them in the dust.
It was a humorous sight.
xXxXxXx
A/N: Sorry for such a long chapter. I'm trying to introduce a few of the characters as the story progresses so you know that it has two simultaneous sections: Rey and the Games.
Don't worry if your character did not appear in this chapter. All the ones I have received so far are in, and they will come into the story in the next few installments. No need to overwhelm you with a pointlessly large chapter with just introductions. Also, please inform me if I did not portray your character in a way you would prefer. I don't want an unhappy reader because of an incorrect character description and whatnot.
Character spots are still abundant, so I would appreciate it if you would submit one. Entry form is at the end of the first chapter.
Open Male District Tribute Spots: One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Ten, and Twelve.
Open Female District Tribute Spots: Three, Five, Nine, Ten, and Twelve.
Lastly, I apologize for updating this late. Updates from me are usually sporadic; I never know when I'll have time to write. Just know that they will at least have plenty of information and such.
Write on.
~~I.D.