Save The World Tonight.
Who's gonna save the world tonight? Who's gonna bring you back to life?
District One.
The stylists were led into the room by the Avox, going in by their pairs. Mesmer clung to Pallas like he was her lifeline, which to be honest, he was. Nobody liked Mesmer within the stylist community, where the best of the best got to butt heads and angle their designs, and it was really all her fault.
"Sonnet's doing it again," she whispered into Pallas' ear. He hummed, staring in the direction of said witch. "Look, she's trying to be subtle, but that stare is constant."
"Well you're not exactly popular Mes," Pallas argued. "If you were nicer, people would be the same," he guided her into the red velveteen booth, much like the gentleman that Pallas was, before taking his seat. "Just say hi to her. Make an effort."
Sonnet passed the pair - heading towards the booth labelled District Four Stylists - with her green-blue hair tied into a ponytail. Mesmer wanted to pull it, but instead, she lightly coughed to catch Sonnet's attention. Feeling Pallas' eyes on her, she took a deep breath and looked Sonnet down. "How are you today? Excited about the tributes?" she asked forcefully.
"Bite me you half-assed wench." Sonnet seethed, walking ahead. Dorfin, her stylist, didn't even apologise; he smirked and nodded proudly.
"See? This is why I don't bother," Mesmer grumbled. "Should've just pulled that damn ponytail. What is she thinking with that? Looks like a damn toddler. Paedophiles would love her look." she added with a swish of her hair.
Pallas sighed. Getting through to her was hopeless, and being her fellow district stylist, he was often placed in the same boat and rejected by most. It sucked; Pallas was genuinely a nice person as well.
The other stylists poured in and he kept his eyes glued to the large plasma screen, wishing it along.
The screen came abuzz, darkness fading to light. The Reapings had already happened and the tributes were on their way as they sat and sipped their champagne or win, but this was the luxury of the lifestyle and they deserved it.
District One was beautiful, Pallas had to admit. Mesmer often said how she'd love to be a part of their community, rather than the Capitol; Pallas knew it was only because everyone hated her, including her family. Why? Mesmer was just an unpleasant person by nature. Nothing could change her. The trees wavered and the sky blossomed blue. Mansions made of red-brick and the Kingston Academy looming in the edges of the screen, District One was the epitome of perfection, just as they prided themselves on.
The escort silently walked towards the bowl and Pallas noted how Mesmer leaned more in her seat. Mesmer preferred the females since she said that there was more to work with. Pallas was fine with that; he liked the challenge in making the boys stand out more anyway. The escort flipped the female's slip open. They always blurred that part out if it was a volunteer next. It panned out, revealing two girls heading to the front - one walking whilst the other ran from further back - before the further female back had beat the other. The other girl naturally looked mortified and screamed, the piercing echo making Pallas' spine shiver.
"Great. She's short. Everything will need heels now," Mesmer complained. "I suppose it's good that she's blonde. Every colour just compliments them."
Pallas sighed. Mesmer was only proving her worth as high maintenance.
The escort asked the girl her name, which she replied as Gloria Lavelle. "That's a pretty name," Mesmer commented. "Okay, I take it back. The height isn't so bad. I guess I can work with the shrimp."
The escort went and collected the male's slip. It would be a volunteer, Pallas knew that much. Last year, he was stuck with the male - another volunteer - who just so happened to believe that he was the best thing since sliced bread. Volunteers always had the largest of egos. Once again, the name was beeped out, only to be revealed by a dirty-looking boy jogging towards the stage. He was unkept and messy - like he lived on the streets - but he still boldly claimed the microphone to announce his name as Lancel Deimos, in tune with a female in the audience screaming once more. Pallas liked that; he was bold and brash.
"Sonnet is giving me evils again." Mesmer commented. Pallas never understood why she cared so much.
"I guess she's jealous of your tribute. Can only imagine what she will have," Pallas responded. "Are you happy with your selection?" Pallas brushed a strand of Mesmer's red hair from her eyes.
"I am," she answered honestly. She could've been worse; she could've been as dirty as the boy. "I don't need to ask about you. I can see the gears whirling inside your mind."
Pallas smirked. "I'm thinking bronze suits with black shirts and white ties."
District Two.
Violet was appreciative of Jasa's help. Violet was new and frankly, it scared her knowing that the first tribute she would style, it would be a Career. The pressure was on because nobody ever knew of how strong Evander Rocque's grip was on Capitolites. Jasa had grown used to it - decades of working, even older than the new order itself - and had grown weary of their attitudes. She was yet to have met a District Two Career who didn't expect everything on a silver platter.
"I'm so nervous," Violet admitted. She sheepishly brushed her light purple hair from her eyes. "What if they hate my ideas?"
"I'll give everything a second look over. Don't panic." Jasa comforted her, not looking in the younger girl's direction. Despite the wait between districts, Jasa could hear the other stylists gossiping. At one point, Delorean from District Eleven had remarked something about Angeline from District Seven's look and that caused a stir between the warring stylists. They were all immature.
The screen switched now. District Two's first notable attraction was their Training Centre, rebuilt from the fallen ashes of the previous one. Evander Rocque now ran it solely on his own, his partner Signus Stone having died from a serious disease. Even Capitolites tried to pay their way into a tour, though the President still kept that under lock; the Training Centre was no longer a secret, but it had to be kept on the straight and narrow and not become commercialised.
Their trainees were tougher. Not only did District Two have the largest number of Victors, but it had the most funds. District Two equalled District One on money.
"Here they come," Violet commented quietly, and on time, the trainees poured from the Training Centre nearby, mixing in with the bored children who didn't attend. "That one looks ferocious." Violet added, pointing at a particular dark-skinned boy who was snarling as he walked towards the pens.
"Violet, quiet please." Jasa said and Violet quieted. She needed to focus.
The escort was quick on the stage, puttering around. Her heels are far too large and she looked like she might stumble over. Jasa didn't like the look; it was nice, but not practical and that is what mattered first in Jasa's opinion.
The name was blurred but the chosen one had moved forward already. It was the male, this time, compared to District One.
Jasa held her breath. He looked common and stereotypical, which meant that Violet would be even more worried now. The boy was stone-faced and hard-eyed, determined steps taking him to his feet. For a volunteer, he didn't look too happy, Jasa had noted. Violet didn't care about that, he just looked intimidated. The escort had to literally thrust the microphone in his hand before he introduced himself as Cres Rhodes.
"I'll take him," Jasa said with a sympathetic sigh. "I'm sure the female will be easier to handle. Don't panic, dear, this is what will happen ever year you're asked to design for," Violet nodded. "Now buck your ideas up."
The escort had taken the female's slip on the way, leaving Cres on stage. Jasa secretly hoped for an easier tribute, just to soothe Violet's worried soul.
The name was blurred; Jasa leaned closer whilst Violet shrunk back.
"I hope it's an evil one," Delorean commented loudly, gaining looks. Jasa rolled her eyes. "A psychopath would be nice. They all look boring so far!"
A lithe girl with blonde hair moved between the crowds, her eyes hardened but nose turned up. Her face was composed and collected, almost like the face of someone with a plan and confidence to back it up. Violet grew more tense, almost sinking into the seat. The girl took the microphone with a face of disdain before introducing herself as Andora Seville.
"That's a lovely name." Jasa said, hoping to lighten Violet up. When she looked, the lavender-haired girl only nodded curtly.
It was going to be a long year, Jasa thought. With a skittish Violet and clearly typical Careers, it looked to be a painful experience for all. Next year equalled retirement at this rate.
District Three.
The screen flipped again, revealing Mackenzie's favourite district. He loved having District Three because they gave him the best technology possible. Their tribute might've been often scrawny and poverty-ridden, but at least they produced nice things for his living. Sephora was too sweet to openly agree, but Mackenzie knew that she felt exactly the same.
He could try to talk to her, but Sephora would probably not listen.
District Three was notably gloomier than other districts. Mackenzie didn't even know where it was located within Panem's structure, but the picture every year was always the same; dark and depressing, with grey skies and a constant drift of black smog from the overworked factories. It was a smaller district too, compared to the likes of District Four or Seven, with houses packed upon each other in neat streets. Besides the haunting picture, it looked rather friendly and like a large community.
"Wouldn't you ever want to visit, Sephora?" Mackenzie asked on a whim. Something about the area stirred his heart and made him yearn for it.
"I've visited a couple of times," she replied. "When Micro Wheeler won, I personally attended to sort out his outfits for the Victory Tour. I also went for Mercury Molass' wedding with her wedding dress in tow," Sephora turned around. "I've been there more times than I can count."
"It's probably better than District Eight," a voice came from the booth over. Mackenzie leaned around, looking at Spring, the stylist for said district. "I was there for a year organising Pippin Halland's outfit. I spent a lot of time with Angelo Sussan, too. He was a lovely man but he did scare me a lot. Not to mention District Eight's current status as on the bread line."
"Isn't most of the districts?" Mackenzie asked, curious. By this point, Sephora had already dropped from the conversation, focused on the screen. "I always imagined them all poor apart from the likes of the Career districts."
Spring shook her head. "District Five isn't as poor as it used to be. Power has become more demanding since then."
Spring knew a lot about the districts; she was what you would call as an adventurer historian, learning as much as she could. Mackenzie awed the way she knew so much. "Who are the poorer districts?" he questioned.
"Districts Nine, Ten, Eleven and Twelve, as well as Eight as of recent years. I hear District Seven is slipping up as well."
Mackenzie was about to ask more when Sephora hushed him. Spring smiled coyly, miming that she'd tell him more after. He nodded, proud, and returned his gaze to the screen to hear the male's name be called out. Kristopher Midden, apparently. No volunteer but then again, that was no surprise.
A boy with gleaming orange hair and blue eyes walked towards the stage, calm and collected. His lips were broke into a smile and his arms swung casually, cocky, almost like he knew it would happen. Mackenzie couldn't believe it and even Sephora had hummed in admiration. He smirked directly at the camera as it floated pass him.
"He's probably got the world on his shoulders," Sephora said thoughtfully. "Either that or he really doesn't mind entering," she paused, adding: "I suppose they might have a shot."
Mackenzie agreed. Should he ask for Kristopher? It seemed almost rude to quickly take the boy who seemed collected and Mackenzie bit down on his lip, pondering his decision as the escort collected the girl's name. Once again, no volunteer as her name chirped through the screen as Ampry Erfinder. The camera quickly panned out towards a girl with short hair and wide eyes. Nobody expected the girl to suddenly jerk her finger at the girl next to her, miming something else. The other girl looked furious, spinning around with a snarl. She leaped and punched, the two girls falling towards the floor.
"Cat fight!" a voice in the packed room called out, but Mackenzie didn't know who. He was too busy watching the screen with careful eyes. Which girl was it?
A Peacekeeper trotted down the aisle and ripped a girl up onto her feet, revealing a bloody nose. Mackenzie cringed; if it's broken, that's more work. The Peacekeeper pushed the accuser forward, revealing Ampry's tactic.
"She's cunning alright," Sephora remarked. "I think I'll take her. She seems... timid. I've always had a soft spot for them. Do you mind Kristopher?"
"No." Mackenzie replied honestly. He was happy that Kristopher was his tribute to style; Ampry seemed to be more than he could handle, and he just didn't like the hassle.
The camera ascended on the two tributes, standing there together; Kristopher waving at the camera, eyes bright, whilst Ampry had her head leaned back, fingers pinched on her nose to stop the bleeding. So far, Mackenzie had to admit, District Three was the most exciting. Despite the weather, they shined.
District Four.
"You're still glaring," Dorfin smirked, his arms crossed over his chest. Sonnet simply ignored him. "Sonnet, Mesmer isn't going to disappear if you keep staring. It'll only make her uncomfortable and that's not achieving anything."
Sonnet snapped her head back, green-blue ponytail catching Dorfin in the face. "Maybe I want her to feel uncomfortable?" she challenged him.
Dorfin didn't understand Sonnet's hatred with Mesmer, but he didn't dare question her either. Like the loyal giant he was, Dorfin stuck by whoever his fellow district stylist was, arms locked and tongue ready to lash out. He was good, that way, but it also had negatives that people - mainly Sonnet - exploited when it suited them.
Dorfin ran a hand over his black mohawk, ensuring that it was truly spiked. People said he looked like a shark; he couldn't believe the amount of irony behind all of his choices.
"I hope mine is prettier." Sonnet commented.
"Who says you'll get the female? What if I want her?" Dorfin argued, though he would let Sonnet have whatever she liked.
"I did. Now shut up, it's starting."
The sea was the most beautiful thing Dorfin had ever seen. It truly blew any other sight out of the water, funny enough. He felt like he could smell the salt in the air. District Four didn't have a set place for Careers to fight, but rather many different fisherman huts that could have held anything. With wooden sides and white-washed pebble roofs, it could conceal anything.
The escort had picked up the male's name before Dorfin had realised. Sonnet leaned back in her chair, careful to never let her eyes waver from Mesmer's body. She didn't care for the male whatsoever and she knew how to twist and poke at Dorfin's buttons to get what she wanted. The name was beeped out confirming the obvious.
A boy had moved to the front rather swiftly, in Dorfin's opinion. It wasn't even a dash or a crazed sprint, but rather one with calculated thought and precision. Dorfin could see it in his eyes; Sonnet just didn't care. He mounted the stage and a lady's scream pierced the air, causing many stylists to wince once more. This year was proving to have tributes with worried relatives.
He looked at the escort and the microphone, as if he couldn't put the two together. She had to literally force the microphone to his lips in order to get any noise, in which he croaked out his name as Austal Eridote. Everyone was puzzled by his lack of social skills and the way he seemed to withdraw on himself. Sonnet scoffed, proud that she had selected ahead of time; Dorfin could have the weirdo whenever he wanted.
The escort, confused, claimed the female's slip. Before the words or the telltale bleep could happen, a girl was parading towards the front, her hair flipping and her lips broke out into the most glorious smile. She was a Career since she was proud of herself. Lakyn Vale, her name was.
"She's beyond better than the shrimp from District One." Sonnet sneered.
"I heard that." Mesmer commented.
"You were meant to, you wench," she called back. Mesmer was just jealous, Sonnet thought. Served the bitch right. "Happy with your boy?" she soon asked Dorfin.
"Tremendously." he smiled, though for once, he wasn't. Sonnet claiming everything she wanted was soon getting on his nerves. But, being the guy he was, he kept it under wraps.
He couldn't betray her, even if it meant putting himself last. He wasn't that kind of guy, even he wished he was. He just wanted to escape to the sea, where he could be as selfish as he wanted. He thought he'd fit in perfectly, even if he couldn't swim. Maybe he should transfer. Dorfin looked up, the knot of guilt in his body twisting. Tempra from District Five or, if he wanted to stay in the Career line-up, he could just take little Violet from District Two. She would let him make his own decisions and he'd still be sweet to her.
"Oh, cheer up," Sonnet suddenly clung to his arm, her voice sweet on those rare occasions. She knew when to push those buttons. "Next year, I'll let you choose, I promise."
District Five.
District Five, the district built to store and harness power, was going up in the world. Regis, the ever socialite, had heard from fellow Capitolites on how this new energy had come into play, becoming a growing trend in the Capitol. Because of the constant demands and need to make more, District Five's economy had become better. He was glad; it was about time District Five had better luck. The stage was shadowed by the looming power plants and factories that smothered the majority of the district, leaving a small square for the children.
It didn't help that District Five was the smallest district, Regis thought.
With each good thought came a bad one. District Five's citizens were as smart as District Three, but often overshadowed. It was good that they were branching out, making names for themselves.
He slowly linked his fingers as the screen switched from sea to solar. Regis personally knew the escort - having worked alongside her for many years, before her sudden change in career path - and considered her a friend. He often would design her new clothes for each Reaping. She carefully drew the male's slip from the bowl and proceeded back to the microphone. Instantly, he felt Tempra stiffen at his side, a sign that she would class as intuition. She said she knew which tribute would be better for her on that feeling alone.
Maybe Tempra should've been a District Five citizen, Regis thought again though his eyes never left the large screen.
His name was loud and clear - Cliff Harlaw - and his fate was sealed. Tempra would no doubt claim him as her own due to the intuition that could simply be explained as nerves, but Regis wouldn't question it. He appreciated Tempra's lack of social skills and desire to communicate, since he hated being in the limelight that often.
Cliff was slow to move, wavering back and forth on the spot. Regis thought he might pass out. Tempra knew that he would be fine. Slowly, he staggered forward, face draining of any colour. With that pale skin, he looked like Tempra, minus the neon green hairstyle.
Tempra opened her mouth but Regis beat her to it. "Yeah I know, he's yours."
He knew her too well. Tempra went quiet and closed her eyes. This would be the part she started to come up with outfits.
The female slip was in his friend's hand almost instantly. He watched with excitement in his golden eyes, waiting for the words to be softly spoken.
Ellery Haynes.
There was a boo in the crowd, a sign of hate. Regis' eyes widen; he always had the extreme ones. He focused harder, watching the girl - surprise evident on her face - move through the crowds swiftly. If she was shocked like Cliff was, she tried to hide it more. Everyone was staring - and that was normal - but Regis noted how the stares were of hatred and dislike, rather than pity or relief. If many people hated her, there definitely was a reason as to why. Regis shivered. Great, he thought, another crazy.
Tempra didn't tense. Of course, whatever was unique about Cliff, Ellery obviously lacked.
Regis put it down to the girl's attitude and social status. As she climbed the steps, everyone fell silent, watching her carefully. She might bolt. She might faint. Instead, with jaw clenched and eyes quickly hardening, she stared the camera down as it zoomed in on her face. She wasn't to be messed up.
"That's done for another year," Tempra commented, voice quiet. Regis nodded along, without looking up, twirling his finger over the rim of his wine glass. It was always his luck. "Guess we should start planning the chariot outfits. Matched or with differences?"
District Six.
Harmonia and Hollow were complete opposites. Sometimes, Harmonia wondered how she ever ended up with Hollow as her fellow district stylist. Whilst her hair was light and bright, Hollow's was dark and heavy, hanging over one of his eyes.
"I told you already, I am assigned the female." Harmonia confirmed for what seemed like the umpteenth time.
"And I told you that we would see after they both got reaped." Hollow countered.
"And then, I told you, it would be better to make an unbiased opinion in order to be the most successful," her eyes narrowed. "Must you argue me on everything?"
"Must you be so dramatic and self-serving?"
Harmonia gasped. "You take that back!"
"I can't take back the truth." he seethed.
Harmonia didn't even bother answering. This was one of the moments she was on about, on how Hollow and her should not work together. She crossed her arms over her stomach and shuffled away from the gloom of doom himself. He couldn't dampen her mood; this was the after-party and her most favourite part of the year!
Just behind the stage and gruesome escort, you could see the faint outline of the train track that served many of the districts concerning distributions to the Capitol and so forth. District Six was the only actual district whose train track cut straight through the city - with houses and buildings below - compared to being on the outskirts in order to stop people skipping boundaries through rebellion. Like District Three, it was gloomy but the sky had creeped through, leaving a mix and match of shadows and light across the ground.
"Here comes my female." Hollow commented, just to spite Harmonia. She knew that and she wouldn't rise to it either.
As per usual, the words were spoken, clarifying the female as Arietta Fenton. Harmonia liked that name. It was whimsical and magical, almost angelic. It matched her own name, she thought carefully and only contrasted more and more with Hollow.
The female in question walked towards the stage, mouth agape. Harmonia's heart went out to her. She looked well and truly shell-shocked, and if Harmonia was honest, she would have rather preferred if she was at least crying or screaming. No emotion was definitely worse. For some reason, she bent over randomly by the steps, picking something up from the ground. That caused a Peacekeeper to hurry her up and she skipped the last few steps in what could be classed as a daze.
"Now, here is your tribute." Hollow said again. He enjoyed bullying Harmonia.
No name came. It was beeped. Harmonia's eyes widened and Hollow even leaned further out of his seat. The room fell silent. Outer volunteers were something of a rare species, and often had to be appreciated in small doses. This boy was a volunteer and now, Harmonia felt torn on letting Hollow win. Either way, he would.
The boy was jogging. That was a good sign, the pair thought. He was keen and not a sob story. He wasn't smiling nor scared, he simply looked like he had an ulterior motive, lips scrunched and forehead wrinkled. He didn't even climb the steps one-by-one, he just leapt, landing solid.
The escort quickly asked his name, voice high and squeaked from the surprise and possibly excitement. Rafe Corinthos, he announced himself with a clear tone. He looked dirty and a little ragged, but that could all be fixed after some tough pruning.
Harmonia scrunched her lips. She'd be the better person. "Did you want the female still?" she asked.
Hollow was silent for a moment. He was as shocked as Arietta had been. Then, he snapped back. "Yes, I'm not changing my mind and letting you have what you always want."
Harmonia didn't care. A smile broke out of her lips and she had to forcefully hide it from Hollow. He didn't win, and that was the most important thing to her.
If they were to be different, then Harmonia at least deserved to beat him every now and then, even if Hollow had basically dug his own grave, so to speak.
District Seven.
"Well, not all districts can be successful. Take District Seven, for example. They haven't had a winner in years," Delorean was talking to his fellow district stylist, Wisper, who seemed unsure of how to reply. It made Angeline's blood boil at how childish he was acting. She had to physically bite down on her tongue to calm herself. "I blame the stylists. They just don't make them stand out enough. It's always trees or paper like, we get it, you make lumber now sit down with the crayons and draw something better, you know?"
Lotus glanced at Angeline. She was ready to snap. He could practically feel the smoke blowing from her ears, hitting him in the face. The tension was thick and it was like they wanted Angeline and Delorean to argue, placing the two booths right next to each other.
"Don't rise to him." Lotus remarked.
"I want to put his face in a blender."
"Getting angry is basically giving him what you want."
"Then, I'll stir it around and around and feed it to some Mutts like a smoothie."
"You're playing into his hands, you know." he deadpanned.
"When it comes out the other side, I'll repeat the process."
Lotus sighed. "Let him win then," he looked at her, but she was still muttering under her breath, eyes glued to Delorean's blatantly obvious smackdown. "I give up with you."
Lotus was tired of having to deal with Angeline. She always played into Delorean's hands and never realised it. He done everything to purposely get a rise out of her, simply because it was amusing to him. Lotus knew that Delorean was clever, but that didn't stop him from low-blowing Angeline on every chance he could get.
The girl's name was suddenly called and Lotus grimaced, having missed the entire show behind it. Stupid Angeline and her stupid aggressive ways. He tried to help her and he suffered because of it.
Rotem Everly had her arms locked around her stomach, teeth chattering ever so slightly and eyes streaming silent tears. She looked so young and yet she had come from the back, where the older teens were penned up. A loud scream broke the silence and, having gotten used to it from the Careers, Lotus simply focused harder. The two mentors on the stage - Spruce and Maple - had different reactions. Maple was passive, but something about Spruce screamed urgency.
He was having the female this year, so Rotem was his. He liked that; she seemed decent enough.
As the trees swayed and Lotus was sure he could smell both pine and freshly cut grass, the male's slip was plucked. Giant redwood trees loomed over the stage and the sight - blocking out what seemed to be crystalline skies - was something out of a fairytale. His name was called: Jericho Castillo.
The boy walked to the stage with his eyes closed, lips letting out heavy, contained breaths. He was nervous, trying to calm himself, which seemed to be the opposite of Rotem. He was large and athletic - which was brilliant - and was even a looker. Angeline snapped back into reality at that time, smiling to herself at what she had claimed.
The two tributes stood on stage just metres apart, both with differing reactions. Then, out of nowhere, Jericho looked towards Rotem and offered what seemed to be a comforting smile.
"Our tributes are going to be friends." Angeline said, and whilst it didn't sound sarcastic, Lotus felt it was.
He didn't care; at least he was the one not playing into Delorean's hands like a stupid schoolgirl. He glanced back at the screen and a smile broke out across his lips. He was excited to see what Rotem had to offer, after all, seeing as many people's' reactions at the reaping tend to be totally different to their actual personality.
"Indeed," he replied, crossing his arms. "Just like us, right?"
Angeline still didn't look at him. "Of course."
And if he happened to allow Delorean to beat Angeline, well, she did deserve it for never listening to him when he knew better.
District Eight.
"That's fascinating," Mackenzie grinned from ear to ear. Spring smiled softly; he seemed like a little kid with a head too big for his body. She liked the appreciation he had for her wealthy knowledge. "So you say District Eight has gotten worse in recent years?"
Sephora hushed him again and Spring had to stifle a giggle. "Yes," she whispered. "A lot of people in the Capitol are beginning to make their own clothes and everything. District Eight isn't as needed anymore. I mean, they are, but the Capitol isn't as dependent on them. Pippin's win was great for them, but it won't stop the slippery slope."
"I just can't believe you know so much," he replied just as quietly. "Sephora doesn't share her knowledge of District Three and I've never been myself."
Pistach only half-heartedly listened to their conversation, his mind too busy tapping against his latest gadget. Mackenzie seemed in awe of what Spring knew, when really, he should be in awe on the technology that District Three created. His latest piece done everything his last one did and more. He couldn't peel his eyes away.
District Eight came up next and looked as ordinary as others. Factories were located in the horizon - like District Three, minus the smog - whilst the houses were more spaced and looked nicer. Pistach glanced up, forcing the dark blue strands of hair from his eyes.
The microphone was pressed to the escort's lips and he kindly placed his gadget to the side in order to focus. Spring was still quietly conversing with Mackenzie, so he'd have to listen for the pair of them. The name - Bryony Dubois - proved his theory that it was the female. This was Spring's department - his latest female tributes having all but died and Spring's success with young Pippin - but again, she seemed too engrossed in the conversation.
His eyes widened and someone shouted out a comment from in the room. "She's white!"
The girl, with white as snow hair and skin, skipped towards the front. Most would see it as a problem, but the girl just seemed to grin wider and wider with each step. For someone walking to her possible death, she didn't look as upset as one would have expected. She climbed the stage with a skip in her step, even attempting to hug a disgruntled escort. Then, she waved at the camera and Pistach had to wonder whether she was all there between her ears.
Spring turned around at that point. Her eyes also widened, but with surprise this time. "She's... different."
"Albinos are becoming more common," Pistach commented, stealing a glance at his district stylist's face. "Give me a second and I'll bring up an article I read on them," he grabbed his gadget, feeling the sense of relief and comfort flood his veins. "If you think about it, she could be related to Esmeralda Snow and that line of heritage."
He didn't bother to look back up. Any excuse to tap away at the electronic machine and forget about reality. He used it for everything.
Sephora pulled Mackenzie away and Spring focused in more on the screen.
The escort called out the boy. His name, however, was clouded by that of a piercing scream. For a moment, she believed that Pistach would look up and be interested, but he was lost to her, absorbed and addicted. Spring looked closer, watching the head of light brown hair separate from the crowd. He marched down the line with a pale face, lips quivering from the aftermath of his cry.
"Don't you want to see your tribute?" Spring asked kindly.
Pistach lifted his gadget, as if the answer was obvious. "I'll meet him soon enough. Your one is too hard to beat so there's no point. Besides, I want to find this article for you."
Spring shrugged. "If you really must."
She still didn't know that boy's name. As if hearing her mind, Pistach suddenly coughed. "His name was Joshua Kersey, in case you missed it from that scream."
"Thanks. I know though, what is it with these people?" Spring frowned. "They all just want to scream as if that'll do anything," then, she paused. "Do you think it's just a natural reaction?"
Pistach weighed the thought in his mind, tilting his head from side to side. "I'll look that up for you in a moment. I can't have two things running at the same time."
Spring just smirked and downed the remnants of her white wine. She already knew the answer, but it was amusing to poke fun at Pistach's obsessiveness. All he had to do now was put that to good use and help his tribute out, otherwise at this rate - and going by what Spring was thinking - her tribute was about to flatten his and steal the attention. Spring wasn't competitive, but she did enjoy beating Pistach whenever she could.
District Nine.
District Nine was just fields. Each backyard was a grain field growing rye, whilst the local park would be the backdrop to a field of wheat. It was a district known for it's greenery and lack of social standards. Unlike most districts, District Nine was a little backwards in their ways, old-fashioned and still carrying beliefs from the Dark Days. It was hard to stamp out old traditions when children were born and bred amongst it.
Igor enjoyed the history behind District Nine. He was one of the best in the business, and unlike most, Igor was allowed to choose which district he styled for; Esmeralda allowed him that incentive each year, but he chose the same place because he felt comfortable with the tributes he worked for. He could pull them from their comfort zones and still keep their personalities in tact. Working alongside Marrion was even better, seeing as she shared the same beliefs.
They didn't bother with the trivial side of the stylist community, where backstabbing and cheap shots grew wild. They kept to themselves and worked as hard as possible. Hardworkers, just like the district they styled for.
The screen switched and Marrion quickly flipped open her notepad.
"I was thinking that we could go for a straw theme this year, perhaps." Marrion jotted down her idea, the costumes just appearing in her mind.
"We could give the girl a dress that shows the front of her legs but hides the back. Some braids, perhaps, giving her a Western kind of look," Igor supplied. "The male could have a toga made of straw, maybe with a matching helmet," he paused, watching Marrion write it down. "Also add that we'll do something with his hair to match him with the female."
The escort had the slip in her name, announcing the female as Lyra Chambray. Marrion hummed as it proved to be a little girl, twelve years old. Igor instantly felt guilty but his mind was already altering the outfit idea in his mind, making it more appropriate for her age. Lyra was holding what seemed to be a ragged doll against her chest, lips moving and eyes building up tears.
"If she brings that doll, I suggest she use it on the chariot." Marrion said. "It's made of straw, see? It would look great."
The idea hit Igor and he turned to face Marrion. "What we'll do is, we'll change the dress into something more girly, like a straw doll, and Lyra can hold that whilst up on the chariot. It would give her a cute appeal."
Marrion's lips broke out into a grin. "Perfect."
As Lyra struggled to make to the stage - still talking to her doll - the escort had already selected the male's slip.
Igor tensed without realising and scanned the crowd as the name was called. Stefan Rui was stood on the edge of a pen, eyes closed and wobbling on the spot. Marrion was elated and placed a tick next to the costume idea for the male. He was older and therefore it fit perfectly. Except, he wasn't moving. The other stylists started to mumble. Then, Stefan fell forward, as if he was in a dream state. A Peacekeeper was behind him in a second, hauling him forward but he never complained or fought back. It looked like he didn't even understand. Lyra, on the other hand, had just climbed the steps and stood there, shaking violently.
"I guess this is what they mean by District Nine's standards. They both are really slow." Marrion sounded almost sad now, a contrast to her previous enthusiasm.
Igor didn't agree with her but kept silent. He couldn't think about the tributes as anything but tributes. His job was to style them, not learn about their life and whether or not they fit the District Nine stereotype he had grown to love. It was easier.
Instead, he smiled. "I think our ideas are just perfect. I'll call up the materials for when we get to the Remake Centre."
District Ten.
Kalican watched as the camera showed off District Ten. Cows. That was the first thought that flashed across his mind. Oh, and sheep. Did they have anything else? Probably chickens. He always imagined District Ten as having chickens just roaming through the streets and nesting underneath huts and houses. He had never been there and to him, District Ten was just an enigma and a mystery waiting to be explored.
Wolfgang stayed silent, face hardened like stone. Kalican didn't like Wolfgang purely because the gentle giant stereotype was not Wolfgang, and that made him uneasy. It was unnerving, the way he chose not to speak. Most of the time, Kalican would just have to alter ideas and Wolfgang would either nod or shake his head. It was a strained relationship that never really blossomed, and if Kalican was honest, he didn't want to put the effort in.
He quickly glanced at District Two - sat a few booths away - wondering what it would be like to have someone as helpful as Jasa or as timid as Violet.
Then, the name of the male - Wayne Fallows - boomed and shook him back to reality. His fingers moved mindlessly, as if wanting to play with something. Wolfgang had dreadlocks. Would he mind if Kalican just played with them out of nerves?
Wayne, left out in the open and seeming vulnerable, had angry tears leaking from his eyes. He had one of those faces where they just hated the world in that precise moment. Kalican felt a twinge of guilt and quickly attacked his glass to keep his mind occupied. Wayne stomped towards the front and, even at the angle the camera had awkwardly sat on, you could see the define clench of his jaw. He could be a fighter or simply an angry-at-the-world teenager.
"Would you like him, Kalican?" Wolfgang spoke and Kalican was almost shocked at hearing his rough and rare voice.
He shrugged, twirling his fingers around the neck of the glass. "I don't mind, you know? If you want him, you're more than welcome. I'd rather you choose because if I had to, the pressure would consume me and then I might explode and let's face it, no-one would want to be splattered with mini-Kalicans."
"Okay." Wolfgang responded, short and sweet.
The camera had then skipped onto the escort, Wayne appearing in the corner of the tight-close shot. Kalican's nerves shot through the roof and at one point, he was ready to try and break the glass. Anxiety had always been his biggest problem. Combining that with an overactive imagination - perfect for his career but a hinderance on his life - and Kalican practically dug his own grave. The quickest this was over, the better. This was always the worst part for him.
The girl was called. Asya Novik.
The camera panned on the young girl with piercing eyes. She just stood there, violently shaking. Kalican let out a little sympathetic noise and, for some reason, expected Wolfgang to do the same. No such luck.
Asya, however, didn't move. All the other young girls around her recoiled, as if they just got burned. Asya was abandoned and then in a flash of a second, Asya spun around and attempted to flee. She ran straight into a Peacekeeper's arms and screamed loud, scrabbling and clawing at the air, as if that'd help. Kalican gripped harder at the neck of the glass when the Peacekeeper seemed to throw her down on her feet, before shunting her forward. Asya stumbled and stutters and Kalican's heart just broke into pieces.
Asya was basically thrown on stage and an angry, teared up Wayne didn't seem to care, still hating the world with his eyes.
It had been dramatic. Too dramatic. Kalican could only imagine what would happen on the train. Asya might try to break the window open and escape. Wayne might commit suicide. He sighed out of relief when the screen broke down into black pixels. He released his aching grip from the glass and stole a glance at Wolfgang once more, mainly out of a want for some sort of twisted comfort.
Instead, Wolfgang looked tense and weathered.
What if he had secretly fathered Asya when he visited for some reason and now his daughter was coming to die? Kalican panicked and had to take deep breaths. Surely not. Unless Kalican had hit that nail on the head. He wouldn't know; it's not like Wolfgang spoke to him or anything.
District Eleven.
"I hope your tributes suck." Angeline had finally broken her angry silence and bit back.
Delorean smirked, turning to face his arch-nemesis. "They can't be as bad as what yours were," he purposely took a long sip of his champagne and smiled sickenly. "Well, their stylist is much worse."
Lotus mumbled something from behind but Angeline kept to her guns, being bold and brash. "You watch your mouth otherwise I will rip it off."
"I don't think that's anatomically possible, but I'd love to test it out on you. These lips are too good for your grubby hands."
Wisper, Delorean's fellow district stylist, shrunk back into her seat, trying to block out what he continuously brought up. He had to irritate everyone and that left Wisper with a hard time making any friends. He was selfish, in that way, considering he only ever bossed Wisper around and deemed himself higher and better rather than make a friend of her. She consciously chewed on her nails, keeping focus on the screen.
"I swear to God, Delorean, I will cave your face in." Angeline vowed.
Mockingly, Delorean tapped his chin. "Bring it then, you Neanderthal."
District Eleven appeared and Wisper let out a sigh of relief. She drew her eyes closer to the screen, focusing on the head of blue hair that was the escort. It was a repetitive sequence that she never liked, but right now, it was comfort and comfort was something she needed when Delorean went to war. District Eleven's common groves and fields were the home to the fruit and grain that Wisper adored. Being strictly District Eleven and not District Ten, she only ate fruit and vegetables and District Eleven was the home of that.
Wisper specifically had pomegranates and persimmons on her mind. That'd be a great idea for a costume, but it had been done. Maybe scarecrows comma fruit. Fruit scarecrows. Wisper smiled, liking that idea. Of course Delorean would disagree and call it stupid and Wisper would nod along, the puppet to the puppeteer.
The escort called out the boy first. Thorn Revan. Wisper watched as he moved through the crowd, just like the others. Nothing in particular screamed individuality, but it was clear he was actually terrified. His facial expression let it all out despite his body trying to contain the evident displeasure. And, because nothing screamed that he was special, it meant that Wisper would have to style him, seeing as Delorean didn't deal with "average".
"See? He's as dull as you."
Delorean laughed, causing Wisper to jump from the loudness. "And he's probably as pathetic as you."
Wisper wasn't surprised by Delorean's attitude towards said tribute. He loved the job simply because he was talented at it and it provided him with the life he deserved. The tributes, well, he didn't care about them at all. Wisper at least tried to make a personal connection with them before they more and likely died.
The escort's reaction at Thorn wasn't the most pleased. If anything, she looked bored as she called out for Caritta Husk to come up onto the stage.
The dark-skinned girl went through three phases. At first, her mouth fell open in clear shock. Then it drew back and her face dropped instead, realisation slamming into her like a freight train. The last phase - anger - showed her clenched jaw and angered eyes as she charged towards the front. Yeah, Delorean would want him, Wisper thought somberly.
"Told you that they both would suck," Angeline commented and Wisper wished she could just vanish.
"Frankly, your opinions don't matter and for the last time, stop talking to me. It's weird," Delorean waved the conversation and ensured that Angeline understood by turning around. He faced Wisper, and she knew what was coming. "You know the drill. I'll take the girl, Carrot or something. You can have the bore."
Wisper nodded like a good submissive. "Sure." she shrugged after.
District Twelve.
Ara and Whit clung together in the booth, each sipping from their respective glasses, though they often switched. It was them. Like sisters seperated at birth, they enjoy shared the same hairstyles but in different colours and everything. In all honesty, Ara and Whit had become the laughing stock of the stylist community for being sheep and copying each other.
It fit that they were left with District Twelve to design for; ridiculous stylists for the poorest, laughable district.
"I wonder w-what we would get this year," Ara giggled, slightly tipsy. "Do you think we should try and make them more than friends?" she laughed again, Whit joining in as they swayed in their seat. "Wait wait wait, no no hear me out, can you imagine if we paired up a little boy with an older girl? It would be super funny!"
They both cried out, laughing, and Delorean leaned over into their booth.
"You both are ridiculous." he hissed.
Whit made sure to slap him on the head, patting him like an animal. "Oh do be quiet you silly little puppy. Nobody likes you as it is without you being a spoil-sport."
Ara backed her up with a maniacal laugh that seemed to cut the silence. Both were completely gone, wine bottles spewed across their table and glasses loss of liquid. The other stylists were either bored or tired. Eleven reapings and dozens of alcohol had taken its toll on many. One more had to go, and it was the district that no-one favoured after the loss of Katniss Everdeen.
The screen cut for the final time, revealing the darkened realms of District Twelve, where the poor thrived. Everyone knew it was bad conditions, but over the years, it seemed to have worsened. The divide between extremely poor and marginally poor had grown and split more dramatically. Ram-shackle huts and dirt-sleeked gravel had made the background and environment seem almost disgusting.
Ara tried to strain her eyes, but everything seemed to move. Why did there have to be two escorts this year? she thought.
She focused harder when she heard the familiar static wavering in the air, the way it did before a word was spoken through the screen. The sight might've been troubled and blurred, but she instantly heard the name - Micah Amaro - before the camera had zoomed in on the boy. Whit giggled again and Ara had to stifle hers once more, knowing the moment was serious. She could practically feel the eyes burning into her skull for being unprofessional but she just didn't care as much as she should of. The boy was paralyzed on the spot.
"Is he not going to move?" Whit slurred. "He should move. It's not, it's not healthy to just, to just stand there," she downed the final piece of her red wine and shook her head. "It isn't healthy."
Finally, as the dark clouds rolled over, Micah moved. Ara watched the two boys mimic each other's steps, even almost stumbling at the concrete steps. Whit burst out laughing again and Ara just couldn't control it either.
Jasa passed by their booth, already leaving with Violet in two. Mesmer and Pallas had grown bored and already disappeared, but many of the others stared for the sheer enjoyment that the two ditzy girls would provide. Delorean even told Pistach to film it on his gadget.
The female was Lucia Bailen. Once more, Whit teared up, her olive skin turning a blooming pink. Lucia moved through the crowds at a slow pace, despite the small smile on her face. It was to hold back those emotions, the part of Ara's sober brain thought. Like Micah, Lucia stumbled at the steps, causing Whit to laugh again. Whit was completely drunk by now, both from laughter and alcohol. Ara, on the other hand, was sobering up. She looked harder at the four tributes standing on stage, her eyelids heavy and throat furry.
"You two are just ridiculous," Delorean commented again, slouching on their booth, arm propping up his tinted orange head. "You are both the mockery of this community. I don't see why Esmeralda continues to allow you to style. You don't have as many Victors as the other districts, and clearly that is your styling faults."
"It's no-ot our fault!" Whit practically spat in Delorean's face.
"You sure about that?" Delorean deadpanned.
"Pe-erfectly," Whit's face scrunched up in disgust. "You, you suck, Delollipop."
Ara nodded along. She agreed with everything Whit said, but her tongue was too big and heavy to move. It wasn't their fault that the District Twelve didn't have as many Victors as the other districts. They done their job as good as possible and hey, coal miners was a very popular outfit choice.
Save The World Tonight by Swedish House Mafia.
The blog for this story is lost hunger games . blogspot - all deaths will be notified here!
All deaths will be based on realism, story arcs and whether or not the submitter is reading the story. Obviously, reviews let me know this, and if said submitter chooses to not review, I have no idea if they're reading the story, and therefore, am more inclined to keep other tributes over said submitter's tribute. Each decision is painstakingly hard but must be done. Everyone knew the odds when they created a character. I would hope you stick around, but if not, I understand.
I would love for you to answer a specific question I have for each chapter!
Which stylists/POV stood out to you?
Which tributes stood out to you?
And, of course, a general review on my writing? It's invaluable!
So... here we are again. Like, my seventh reaping. Did you know I hate them? No? Well, I do. I loathe them. The reactions are always the same and, in all honesty, a tribute can act completely different at the reaping compared to the Games/Capitol. I mean, I would cry if I got chosen but I wouldn't cry the entire time or anything... basically, I use the reapings to place the tributes as the background, so I could use the reapings for other vices. This time; adding to my world-building. :)
I took a different approach with this. I wanted something fresh and new - stylists ftw! - but then I struggled writing it in 1st POV and the personalities all seemed the same because I was trying to capture Capitolite enthusiasm. Unlike mentors, like, they chose this so they agree, you know? They all just seemed the same and it bugged me.
So, here is 3rd POV! I haven't wrote it in ages. Did it come out as crap as I imagined it? Don't worry, it'll return to 1st POV after this.
Yeah. These tributes are pretty interesting. I've worked out alliances and everything already.
For all the newbies, four Capitol chapters are on their way, once a week hopefully! Unfortunately, I will be disappearing for a week so at some point, they'll be a hiatus without updating. Writing might be accomplished though.