So they marched me down to the centre of town,
With their pitchforks high in the air.
I was chained and bound with a blindfold around
So the judge wouldn't catch my stare.
Jayde Atlas: District One Mentor
I sit in the chair of honor set out for me and the other Victors of District One, today is the Reaping, today I will yet again be forced to mentor a pathetic excuse for a trainee. Last year I chose to mentor the male, the very boy who was ruthlessly killed by the pair from District Three.
District Three took down my tribute. How embarrassing.
This year I will not make the same mistake, I will mentor a winner. If no winners are chosen than I will make them a winner. Failure is not an option, my reputation as a Victor is at stake.
The Victor of the 7th Hunger Games sits next to me in the special area reserved for this year's mentors. He is quite old, nearly twenty years my senior, and I was not around for his Games. Though I really should make time to watch them, I hear they were entertaining.
By now the video is almost over and I find my eyes flittering over the crowd of children. I wonder who will be the tributes this year? Surely a pair from the training centre, no less, but will they be ready? They had better be, I cannot take another year of being known as a failure.
Before the slip has even been clutched by the white gloved hand of District One's escort a black haired female steps forward with a sickly sweet smile on her pale face. She walks ceremoniously up to the stage and stands beside the escort.
"What is your name dear?"
"Gem Smoke," she replies, her voice dripping with what I can only describe as mystery.
That girl, she is whom I want to mentor, this year I will have a winner.
Another volunteer is chosen from the male's section, a tall boy with sandy colored hair and light eyes. He smirks the whole walk up to the stage and even throws a wink or two into the audience.
This is the stereotype of District One, it is not matter we are usually beaten out for the title by a District Two.
Lyme Roque: District Two Mentor
I can't stop myself from staring at the escort, a woman with vibrant purple hair and eyes the color of peaches. She is new this year, the last five years at least we have had a male escort by the name of Livinder Gerome, he was quite the character himself with his white accents and devilish grin. Perfect for District Two.
Milo Jay sits in the chair on my right side, face a passive display of very little emotion. I remember him from when I was a tribute, he was my district partner's mentor but I could tell by the way he looked at me that he knew I would come out victorious.
It has been only a year since I won the Hunger Games but I still can feel the tension in my limbs and the feeling of being watched. It's invigorating but at the same time disturbing, though it makes me the perfect mentor for this year's lucky tribute.
Milo had already claimed the male tribute, as he has every year he has been mentor.
For the first time in my life I actually hear the escort announce the name on the slip, every other year a cry of volunteering has been shouted from the crowd. I am confused but then I remember my district partner.
He was a strong boy, top student under myself in the Academy, he volunteered for the Games at age 18, just like myself. On day thirteen his alliance turned on him, he was mauled and his pretty face was hardly recognizable when he returned. There will be no eager volunteers this year.
"Hunter D'Agosto."
A boy about sixteen or seventeen years of age with blonde hair strides up to the stage in a confident manner. He is obviously not a trainee but still he manages to compose himself and look confident. I flash a sly smile to Milo, once again he will not bring home a Victor.
I wait on the edge of my seat as a chorus of shouts come from the crowd of eligible females. Thank goodness my tribute will at least have training, it will make my job of surviving much easier. I mean her job of surviving.
Finally a tall, fair skinned girl with narrow blue eyes mounts the steps and takes a place beside the escort who looks absolutely overwhelmed. When asked her name she replies simply that her name is Athena Roddrick.
Athena Roddrick, Victor of the 38th Hunger Games, has a nice ring to it don't you think?
Beetee Wyre: District Three Mentor
Mentoring is just like being in the Hunger Games all over again. You pour every ounce of knowledge and every bit of advice into your tribute in the hope that they may come back alive. This is my third time mentoring and I have learned that they rarely do.
The hardest year I had ever mentored was when Tesla, who now sits beside me, won. I was not her mentor, had refused to help her. She has been just fourteen at the time, no one younger that fifteen had ever won before.
I hadn't even wanted to know her name, I knew it would just join the list of names that I had failed.
But she had come back, she was smart and she was able to come back. My own tribute had died by her means but yet I still felt overjoyed that she had won. Now the fourteen year olds know that it can be done. Though anything under that still has little hope.
"Sparks Jadestone!"
A voice rings out among the silent crowds of District Three. The masses of females parts to isolate a girl with bright red, frizzy hair and emerald eyes as round as saucers. She looks around and I would think she was about to try to run for it.
A few seconds later her face transforms into a look of serenity, the girl smirks to herself and mounts the stage, placing herself next to the male escort, a look of disgust at the man present on her face.
"Bolt Fresia!"
A panicked looking boy from the seventeen year old section is brought forward by the now impatient Peacekeepers. Once they have delivered him to the bottom of the steps he takes a moment to look back before he shakily mounts the stairs. Once on stage I can feel the tension within him and see he is noticeably wobbling and his eyes have not yet returned to their normal size.
"I want the boy," a whisper comes from my left and I nod quickly. If she wants the boy she can have him. Though something is not right with Sparks, she at least seems able to hold her own.
Mags Lykin: District Four Mentor
For years the Reaping has been the same, I sit here and watch as two teenagers volunteer to give away their lives for a government that couldn`t care less about them. These kids have been brainwashed into believing in the Hunger Games, just as I was all those years ago.
I cannot blame them though, wasn`t the sole reason I volunteered to bring fame to myself and honor to my family? I was young then, only eighteen, but I believed in what I had been taught.
A young girl is selected first, she does not appear completely helpless but I can recognize the fear in her innocent brown eyes. She knows that there are years without volunteers and she fears for her own life. It reminds me of my elder sister, who was reaped at the young age of thirteen only to be saved by a girl who sought the same fame I won.
"I volunteer!" The voice of a female echoes through the crowds with the force of a thunder cloud. A petite girl with auburn hair and tanned skin emerges from the crowd and makes her way up the stairs to join the escort onstage.
"And what is your name sweetie?" The escort asks, her voice suddenly even more enthusiastic, if that was at all possible.
"Marina Crest, Victor of the 38th Hunger Games," she replies coolly, a smirk playing on the curls of her lips.
Before the slip is even pulled out of the bowl a surge of males rush forward in a unison battle cry. A tousle begins just below the steps and the escort looks on with excitement, obviously knowing that whoever comes out of that fight will be a good
Finally a boy with bronzed skin and green eyes and hair that is a brown color with streaks of blonde that appear natural, unlike the odd highlights present on the escort's colorful head. He gives Marina a playful nudge before stepping in front of the microphone.
"I am Fin Aquil and I am here to give Miss Victor here a run for her crown," he says with a quick wink towards the mentors.
Immediately Bryn leans over to me and tells me the boy is his. That is just fine with me, I'd prefer the girl any day.
Avani Joik: District Five Mentor
The two children on stage look completely helpless, yet their small bodies remain still as if trying to give off an air of confidence.
The smallest is a girl of twelve named Aras with pale skin and dark hair. She looks out above the crowds with her lips forming a perfect "o" and her brown eyes the size of saucers. She had to be lead up to the stage by a couple of white clothed Peacekeepers because her tiny legs refused to propel her towards the stage.
The boy who stands on the opposite side of the escort is a boy only slightly taller than Aras with shaggy black hair and eyes so dark they look like two large pupils. When his name was called her steadily made his way out of the fourteen year old section, though his legs were noticeably wobbling.
Verge leans over to me, alcohol easily recognizable on his breath. I remember when I was reaped and he was my district partner's mentor. He never could meet my gaze but that has changed. There are barely any Victors from Five so the few of us that are here are close. We each carry with us the pains of the Hunger Games and the lasting guilt that has survived with us. For me it has been twenty-nine years and still I can hear the small boy's shrieks as my wild eyes trained my weapon on his heart.
There isn't a day that goes by where I don't regret that move, the move that ultimately won me the Games.
"Which do you want?" His voice slithers into my ear like a snake, I can feel his warm breath on my cheek and I have to turn away to keep from vomiting.
I look at both of the tributes with a critical eye, Sonic is the obvious choice but he seems, off somehow, whereas Aras gives off a relatively calm exterior despite her small size and age.
"The girl," I whisper back, careful to keep my nostrils turned away from his putrid breath, "I want the girl."
Maize Ford: District Six Mentor
Colm sits in the chair beside me, staring directly in front of him as though in a trance. A trance though is a temporary thing, Colm has been like this for years, eight years to be exact. He began taking morphling as an escape route two years after he won the Hunger Games. He was only eighteen years old when it began, now he is twenty-six and I haven't heard him speak for months.
Colm is only twenty-six years old though his appearance claims him as much older. His brown hair is greasy and falls limply to his ears and his skin is a sickly yellow color with his skin sagging around his eyes and cheeks.
When I had looked in the mirror I had recognized a similar figure in my own reflection. I too had turned to morphling for it helps to ease the pain of my nightmares. I began just two years ago at the age of twenty-nine, so I am able to function on a regular basis. Colm requires my assistance to do almost everything, even dress himself on most days.
My eyes snap up to look at the stage once again to look at the girl whom Colm will be mentoring. She has long brown hair and deep brown eyes and goes by the name of Margi Perrin. She stands on stage next to the much shorter boy with a triumphant smile plastered on her face.
It's almost like she thinks she has a chance.
I look once again at the tribute it will be my duty to mentor, Chevy Axel. A young boy who I believe is thirteen, with dark eyes and messy black hair. He stands on stage shaking and wide-eyed, occasionally he will glance up to the escort but his gaze will almost immediately return to the ground.
At least he knows his fate.
Ander Pine: District Seven Mentor
I stand facing the doorway to the train where the two new tributes will soon enter. My dark eyes trained on the metallic door, my gaze does not waver and I can feel the tension within the cart. Aspen and I had decided many years ago that we would let the tributes decide who would mentor them.
Since it is their lives on the line I feel like we owe them that privilege.
Finally the door whooshes open and the tall escort woman enters the train. She gives me a sickly sweet smile and sits down with her feet crossed at the ankles. Behind her a girl with slanted dark eyes and straight black hair walks on with a cautious look on her face. I remember her well from the Reaping, she was the one who looked as calm as if she were just about to make a presentation in class. Her name is Echo Osuushi.
The boy that walks in behind her is Dusty Abernathco, he is fourteen years old but by his height you would think him older. When he was chosen the most he gave was an expression of disappointment before his face turned to an unreadable mask.
"Who would you like as your mentor?" Aspen says in a mechanical voice, almost as if it pains her to speak to the two children.
"Your letting us pick, I thought it was predetermined?" Echo retorts, raising an eyebrow at Aspen who doesn't meet her gaze.
"We usually let the tributes pick," I offer, allowing my fellow mentor to once again fade into the background where she very much prefers it.
"Well than I want you," Echo tells me and moves to sit in a chair by the window, ushering me over to join her. Dusty takes the hint and retreats into the corner to stand by Aspen.
"What kind of skills do you have Echo?" I ask the real questions, I am not one to bead around the bush. I want to bring her home, that is my job.
And I take my job very seriously.
Twill Flax: District Eight Mentor
"So which one of you will be my mentor?" The redheaded boy named Sewn asked bluntly. I have discovered a lot about this fifteen year old since seeing him at the Reaping.
When his name was called he asked if he had to go up there. Funny kid. That little stunt should definitely earn him some sponsor points though it did nothing to formulate a relationship between him and Percephine, District Eight's escort of ten years.
"I will be," I say, my small voice echoing through the silent cart. I never really had been able to take myself out of the arena. Speaking above a whisper is foreign to me, as doing so would have gotten me killed.
We are humans and therefore we adapt to survive.
Sewn's eyes examine me and I feel suddenly self-conscious, he looks at me with a look that could almost be disgust. As if he doesn't believe this broken remaining body of a former tribute could possibly help him.
And maybe he is right. In all the years that I have mentored I have not brought one tribute home. Only once have one of mine made it through the Bloodbath and even so she was killed just two days later.
I am unable to deal with my own pain, even Woof who is drunk ninety percent of the time can at least give some advice. Maybe if I found some way to dull my pain I would be of more use to Sewn and the others.
But I can't do that to myself, my body has already been through hell and I just can't bring harm upon myself. Not when I came so close to dying.
Woof places his large arm around Lacey's shoulder. Almost instantly her body tenses and her eyes grow wide. She looks just as she did during the Reaping, stiff and unsure, though I would not expect her to be anything less.
I look once more at Sewn, his red hair falling over his eyes and his back hunched as he leans over a plate of pasta. Maybe I couldn't help the others but I can help him.
Ware Kindl: District Nine Mentor
"Would you like something to eat you two?" Quince coos from behind where I stand. Most of the time we have spent on this train with the tributes she has been trying to engage Faction in some sort of conversation.
"No thank you," the girl, Buttercup replies with her eyes looking down at some fascinating spot on the wood table. The girl at least seems polite enough, though I don't have high hopes for her in the arena.
I give her one minute, two tops.
"Faction? Anything for you dear?" Quince tries again, it is the same play every year. How long will it take her to realize that no one here needs someone to remind them of their families? The less we bring up District Nine the better. There is nothing worse than having to listen to homesick stories for a trip halfway across Panem.
This year Quince told me she would like to mentor Faction. She just cannot stand the thought that someone could resist her "charm" and "motherly nature" and Faction has done just that. Buttercup looks as though she won't be too much trouble, though I don't plan on getting to know her.
The last time that happened was my second year of mentoring when I was assigned to a twelve year old female by the name of Noa, she had brown hair and big brown eyes that looked up at you with hope. When she made it through the Bloodbath I was filled with hopefulness that maybe, just maybe, I could bring her home.
She was dead by the next week, hung by her neck on the end of a sword that dripped with sticky red paint.
After that I swore I would never get attached to a tribute again.
Ecru Novie: District Ten Mentor
"What skills do you have Dustin?" I ask my assigned tribute. He is a rather tall male with brownish blonde hair and irises so dark they blend into his pupils. From the moment I saw him walk up the steps to the stage I wanted to be his mentor. He has a crooked grin and a look of intense interest that intrigues me, he isn't the kind of tribute I am used to mentoring. The sad, desperate, lost type who stare into space, leaving you to wonder what is playing through their minds.
Do they know they are already doomed?
"I'm pretty fast," he begins, talking with his laid back attitude almost as if he can't be bothered with moving his lips. The words come out as a drawl that makes you feel instantly comfortable with him, "and I got decent aim too."
"That's a great start," I say with as much of a smile as I can muster.
In the opposite corner of the cart my eyes follow my mentoring partner. Hunter sits in a chair facing away from Sage who looks just as lost and stunned as she did when she was called up on stage. She seems to be mumbling a few words to either herself or to Hunter, though I would tell her not to waste her breath.
For as long as I can remember Hunter has never wanted to grow attached to his tributes. Though in the more recent years it seems he cannot even bear to look at them. With Sage he has made as little contact as possible, only whispering his name under his breath and then taking a seat in front of the speeding window.
For an instant I lock eyes with the fourteen year old but she immediately averts her gaze back to the floor. With Hunter as my partner it almost feels as though I am mentoring alone.
Seeder Grove: District Eleven Mentor
"Quinn?" Barley once again asks his unresponsive mentor.
I would tell him not to waste his time, Quinn has aged and with it the fears and memories have grown. For the last five years I have not heard him speak, not one word to myself of any of our tributes. Though he must continue to mentor, either until he dies or until District Eleven has another Victor.
After nearly an hour on the train Barley pulls me aside.
"Can you mentor Chryssa?" He asks me, "I think it would be better for her."
Tears nearly come to my eyes, perhaps it is just an act but this boy seems to truly care about his district partner Chrysanthemum who sits alone at the dining table, staring into a bowl of soup that I ordered for her but she never touched. Her dark hair hands in wisps to neatly cover her light blue eyes.
"Of course," I reply with a warm smile, "and if you need anything Barley I am here to help."
That was true, it is the same message I had given to most of Quinn's tributes. It is unfair to them that they don't have a mentor capable of even holding a conversation.
I feel bad for Quinn but there are times when I hate him, hate him for leaving me to help these doomed children alone. Hate him for ignoring my pleads with him to at least talk to his tribute. Hate him for getting me out of the arena all those years ago.
Ridge Kilan: District Twelve Mentor
"Isn't every district supposed to have two mentors?" Channing says from behind me as I move to pour myself another glass of water. The boy glances over my shoulder with a calculating stare and refuses to sit down even after being on the train for many hours.
Once my glass is full I walk over to the ice bucket and plunk three ice cubes into the liquid. I set it down on the table and scoot over until I am sitting across from my other responsibility. She is a young girl of fourteen but the way she sits with her shoulders tucked in and her eyes downcast marks her as far younger. Her long, dark hair hangs around her face and when she glances up as I settle myself I see the remnants of tearstains on her cheeks.
The boy Channing is much larger, he stands to be nearly my height and crosses his arms in front of his chest protectively, as if waiting for someone to make a move against him.
This is not a bad habit to have where he is going.
When I glance sideways at the window I see that we have nearly arrived in the Capitol, attempting to bring some energy into the pair I jump up and plant myself in front of the window.
"Kindra, Channing, look we are almost there."
Kindra obediently rises to her feet and walks cautiously over to join me at the elongated window, as she moves closer her eyes widen in awe and her lips part to form a perfect circle. Her tiny hands grip the window ledge and she stares out at the crowds of Capitolites that have gathered to greet them.
She stares with amazement as the people recognize her and wave giddily in her direction, she manages a tentative smile. The crowd goes crazy, so eager to get even the slightest glimpse of a tribute. They are treated like celebrities, instead of the martyrs they will soon be.
The artist theme for this story will be Billy Talent, a verse from a song will be at the beginning of each chapter.
Song: The Dead Can't Testify
The blog for this story can be found on my profile.
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