Next up, the tributes! Please take note: all tributes are between the ages of 12 and 18!
After a few more moments of bickering with Mycroft, Sherlock returned to his fellow tribute, a girl from district 9. She was shorter than him, and her hair shone a coppery red. It was pulled up, out of her face, and wrapped in a low bun on the nape of her neck. As a costume, she wore a beige silk dress, which John assumed was supposed to represent grain. Sherlock, it seemed, had decided against wearing a costume. He simply stood in a black suit, the button up shirt underneath a deep purple. John decided it suited him very nicely.
"Mycroft," John broke the terse silence that had fallen over their group since Sherlock had left. "Why is your brother from a different district?" He'd never heard of that happening before, he wasn't even sure it was possible.
"A story for another time, perhaps," Mycroft spoke calmly, his blank face void of emotion. "Take a look at your competitors John. They're all that matter, now."
John knew he was right, so he complied. A knowledge of his tributes might save him. He glanced anxiously around the stables where everyone was getting ready for the parade. He figured he might as well start at district 1 and move downwards. He found the chariot emblazoned with a shining "1" easily.
District One's industry was luxury items. John watched as a boy and girl, decked out in gold, danced and twirled next to their chariot. He thought back to the readings he'd watched on the train to the Capitol. Hailing from district 1, the first of the career tributes were Jim Moriarty and Irene Adler.
John clearly remembered Jim's beady eyes and calm demeanor, although something about the unassuming character set him on edge. Next to him, Irene was shining, her crimson lips and sea-green eyeliner seemed to jump off the screen at him. John noticed her lips were still a striking shade of red, but her eyeliner was gold, to match her skin tight gown. She seemed equally as dangerous as her counterpart.
Next was District two: masonry. John saw the two male tributes pulling at their suits, both eerily resembling Peacekeepers. John recognized them as Greg Lestrade, whose brown hair seemed to be flecked with gray even at his young age, and Scott Dimmock, whose demeanor seemed to demand respect, although no one complied.
District Three's industry was technology, and the tributes were both dressed like microchips, with blue, green and red wires running across their black suits. The tributes, who john recognized from the videos as Sally Donovan and David Anderson, were bickering loudly, their arms swinging to illustrate their point.
Following that was District Four, where the tributes, a young blonde boy and brunette girl whose names John couldn't remember, were dressed in thick green overalls with large black rubber boots. John laugh as the two tripped and waddled around in their boots.
District Five represented Power, but John saw nothing interesting about the tributes: two boys who's eyes shifted constantly. Were they related? Their resemblance was eerie.
District Six, transportation, was as disappointing as the previous district. The tributes were two girls, one wiry and tall, another short and stumpy.
District Seven was lumber, and John shivered as he watched the older boy tribute swing an axe with ease. The younger boy next to him couldn't have been more than fourteen, and he was drowning in his checkered shirt.
Next was District Eight, textiles, and John laughed as he saw a young girl screech about the improper seams of her dress. The boy beside her groaned loudly, stating that they were going to die, her seams were unimportant. John giggled as the girl turned scarlet.
Next was the district John had been waiting to see, District Nine, grain, with the impossible boy and his plain companion. Not much was known about District 9. It was obvious that they had loads of farmland and supplied all the grain to Panem, but John remembered hearing talk about large buildings in the district, and that only authorized personnel were allowed inside.
John had been staring at Sherlock for a solid two minutes now, and the beautiful eyed boy turned to meet John's stare. He looked at the ground, nervous, but he could feel Sherlock's eyes still boring into him, drilling deep into his soul. John decided to move to the next district before he embarrassed himself any more.
District Ten was livestock, and John watched a large boy, dressed in jean overalls, poke at a young girl, dressed as a cow. She looked incredibly put out about her costume, but she wore it with dignity, refusing to let anyone laugh at her.
Next was District Eleven, agriculture, and John looked at the small pair. District eleven was the poorest district aside from twelve, and John shuddered as he saw the sunken eyes and protruding bellies that showed their malnutrition. The girl was smiling though, and she gripped her fellow tribute's hand tightly. He, on the other and, stared into space, as though he couldn't believe where he was.
That left only John's home, District Twelve, Mining. The poorest district, and the laughing stock of the rest of Panem. John, determined to look intimidating when the other tributes looked at him, stuck his chest out and stood as tall as his little legs would allow. He would show all the tributes that he wasn't afraid, and that the neither the Games, the Capitol, or the President had control over him.
As he moved to board his chariot to begin the parade, John watched as Sherlock shot him a sly sink from his position in line. John made an amendment to his previous statement: maybe Sherlock had control over him, a little.
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