Decimus Davindrue; 45; Capitol
When people first meet the head Gamemaker, they expect a jovial man, one who frequently offers a humorous comment or a hand to shake. A positive disposition, camaraderie with every lowly citizen he meets. Well, you don't get a position like mine being benevolent. I simply have no patience with others, be it a pathetic Tribute or high-ranking official. They're all the same to me. Not to say I don't partake in the benefits of being one of the most wealthy, powerful man in Panem. I enjoy the unlimited food and drink, the countless number of women who throws themselves my way. I have a wife, of course; the trilling nag. I keep her to save face; shove a few jewels her way and she'll leave me alone long enough to do my work. Beyond her, I'm free to do practically whatever I wish. Namely preparation for my only pride and joy; The Hunger Games. Years ago, I was merely in charge of directing the sponsor-sent parachutes to the emaciated hands of the Game's worthless players; but someone saw I was something more. I had just been punished for using one of the floating gifts to "mistakenly" guide a more bloodthirsty Tribute to another, sealing their untimely demise. It was a favorite past-time of mine, usually over-looked, but this time I had done it in the eyes of a man with infinite power, limitless glory- President Snow. He has always been a frequent visitor to the behind-the-scene action of the Games, and had been looking over my shoulder, following my actions as I maneuvered the silver parachute towards the small boy, the girl from District 8 clearly tracking its path the entire time. The Head at the time sent me away quickly, flustering apologies to the President as he flung his hands out towards me. As I trudged outside, the cold wind stinging my cheeks, I heard a voice behind me;
"There's other ways of making it," he mused. I wheeled around to be nearly knocked directly back with the powerful, flower-disguised scent of blood, "When you think like us."
Like us? How could President Snow and I possibly- that's when it all added up. His speedy, sudden rise to power, the bleeding sores constantly festering in his mouth, the questionable deaths of everyone previously above him. I smiled. Poison. It was easy making my way to the top after that. And now, here I sit, over-seeing the private training for the Tributes of the 47th Hunger Games. I had been keeping a decent eye out for any Tributes of exception, though I had learned from great experience not to judge how they act during that time. They're usually saving themselves, and sometimes you could I no way prepare yourself for what is to come. Some of them really surprise me; for citizens of the Districts, it's remarkable how beautiful, fierce, and talented some of them can be. Shaking my broad shoulders beneath the soft, silken cloak that marked my power, I held down the intercom button.
"District 1 male," I glanced down at my sheet, where all of the Tribute's names were neatly typed in golden ink. I rarely bother to remember their names. I'd never met a child with a personal title for each of his toys, so why should I?
"Linus Santoro," I read.
A typical District 1 brand, the handsome blonde boy crossed into the room with a straight face, immediately heading towards the more enticing weaponry. His toned arms flexed as he warmed up with the sword, inflicting serious damage on a good portion of our dummies. Nothing I hadn't seen from one of our finer District's before. He strode over to the rack of mannequins, taking five up into his arms. I took note of his physique, although I was not sure when he was planning to really dazzle me. That's when he grabbed a spear, and with one hand, sent a thick foam dummy spiraling into the air, skewering it through the tough chest before it had even a chance to float down. He did this again and again, each time more impressive, and each time with renewed energy. I had seen enough to know that this boy would do great things in the Arena.
"You may go now, Mr. Santoro."
He exited with a curt nod. Not much charm to him, I noted. Leaning onto the intercom, I read off,
"District 1 female, Phoenix Chase,"
Chase. I knew that name. And as the strawberry blonde with fierce eyes appeared in the doorway. Bennet Chase, Victor of the 32nd Hunger Games. The winner of the first Games I had ever had the pleasure of conducting. I can still feel my chest swelling with pride as I recalled the strong young boy pumping his fists in triumph. The girl froze in the doorway, probably intimidated by the legacy left behind by her father. It entered my mind that this little lady may not have inherited his fight, when suddenly she took off at a full sprint, flipping over a table set with knives, snatching off two in the process, and rolled into an upright position, flinging the daggers into a beautiful arch straight into the padded wall. A Chase after all. Knowing she had already made her mark, she continued to fiddle with the other arms, showing a fair amount of skill with each. She wasn't as pretty as most of the girls from 1, the ones who I could have my way with after Victory, a gift for "sparing" them. Smarter than the average one too. But maybe I could get lucky…
"You may go, Ms. Chase," I paused to watch her strut out of the door; "District 2 male, Gregory Hendrick."
Gregory was a rarity from his District. He didn't have that vicious glare, that brutish attitude. No, he played it a different route. A cleverer one, I'll give him that. Two usually reaps the standard brawny warrior; although he had his fair share of muscle, the boy was pure wit. He danced with the sword while carrying a conversation with my fellow panel of Gamemakers, taught one of the better looking ladies his bow and arrow technique from afar, and even tossed her a sliver of wood from a climbing tree carved with his name after executing his excellent knife skills. Quite frankly, although his charming humor would win him points with the crowd, he made me sick.
"Your time is up, Gregory," I announced. Scribbling down a few more notes, I called out his female counterpart, Averil Alderdine. I continued taking notes on the previous three as she came in; I didn't need to judge any further as it was clear from just three days of training, she was exceptional at everything she touched. I heard the spears thump into the targets, the maces whizzing around, the swords cutting through the air. The girl shot a flustered glare my way; probably thinking she hadn't fazed me a bit with her talents. She'd get over it once she saw her score illuminated amongst the rest.
"You are dismissed, District 2 female." I didn't call her by her name purposely, just to watch her tongue-tied, befuddled expression before storming out, allowing the doors to swing shut with a bang.
I was still chuckling as District 3's Bennett Howard entered the room. I almost laughed even harder at the sight. Another gangly District 3 boy who thinks he might stand a chance with only his brains on his side. But even as the boy struggled on every station he approached, I could sense something else to him. And I liked it.
His District partner, Floe Quince, was something different. I'd seen kids trying to imitate the skills of Districts 1 and 2 before, but never one from District 3. She could handle a blade with a decent amount of skill though, and run faster than anyone yet. I didn't over-look her wild curls and curvy figure, either. You rarely get a good looking broad from 3, and they're usually too smart and proud to wind up with me for a while anyways. This one, I could see.
The male from District 4 immediately swaggered in, winking at all of the ladies and giving me a friendly nod. Ah yes, Shea Gondor, the casinova of the Games. Every female in the Capitol was swooning over the pretty-boy. Frankly, after the nod, I didn't like him. But as soon as he wielded that trident with meticulous diction even more beautiful than his tan body, I knew he would go far. He tinkered around with the other items, but even after showing his competence with those, nothing matched his forte with the jagged skewer. Of course, the District 4 competitors were known for pumping out the occasional Games-ready Tribute; and this boy clearly had his share of prepping.
I set myself up to be amazed from Majestic Finely from 4, seeing how much her partner had dazzled me. But she completely grazed over the battle stations with a warm smile on her face, immediately heading over to the less-visited survival stations instead. She passed with flying colors and turned to face me with that silly hopeful grin, as I stared back waiting for her to reach over for the bows, a harpoon, anything. But we continued our stare-off until I realized she would do no such thing.
"Is that it?" I inquired. Even the ferocious players with incredible talents couldn't mystify me as much as this girl had.
The light fell from her eyes even though the corners of her mouth were still pinned up.
"Yes sir," she piped as her brow furrowed. Her funeral.
The boy from 5 was pathetic; approaching the roping station and giving up after two useless knots, using the rest of his time to mope around the floor. I didn't even bother to remember his name.
Camellia Embury flounced in and impressed me in a different way, a way few others would see and understand. The girl dashed around, blindly handling everything in sight. She clearly had no idea what she was doing, but at times she nearly even convinced me she could operate them with ease. I few of the lesser Gamemakers around me gasped and slipped out a few sounds of admiration, clearly not bright enough to see that in weaponry, this girl didn't stand a chance. The others scoffed at her pathetic attempts, waving this girl off with a 2, ossibly 3. But I saw more; she was smart, and occasionally, that alone could win the Hunger Games.
There were two "babies" of the Games this year; but this one was no innocent. Burl Lichten slunk in, grimacing towards us with his terribly mangled teeth. Certainly unattractive, no charm whatsoever; but the boy had obviously made good use of his rough District life. The way he moved stealthily about, how his you could see him calculating every move, every decision in his eyes. He was clearly a street rat, although it didn't transfer over in the way he worked on the training floor. Some of my workers even insisted upon looking into the establishment of an illegal Trainging Center in 6, but I knew better. I saw him staring at the way the wealthier Tribute's handled their weapons, the scheming look on his face. The observant little bastard could roughly replicate any move; his technique was poor and his endurance was little, but he held incredible promise.
I called Lia Withers of District 6's name three times before she seemingly materialized on the center of the floor. My team and I exchanged several glances, each of us wondering how she managed to slip in undetected. For a 12 year old from a District like hers, she had effectively caught my attention. She frisked around with a few daggers, managed to utilize them not with trained ability, but with enough efficiency to get the job done. She passed through the basic survival tests easily, and as I called her to leave, figuring she had finished showing an ability she had, she retrieved two loaves of bread, an apple, and an entire baked partridge from the corner of the room and silently placed them before me, and quickly darting out of the room. My eyes shuffled about the table around me filled with food, wondering how and when she could have taken it right underneath our noses. No easy, young kills this year.
Barka Blaine came in with a scowl that could even make me flinch, had I not had the power to grind him to dust with the push of a button. He was clearly a born fighter. The impressive amount of weight he lifted right away was nothing compared to his axe skill; nothing new, coming from District 7, yet I couldn't judge based on boredom. It was impressive all the same, I suppose; especially when he took a huge risk in chopping down one of the artificial, yet still strong-standing climbing trees in the Training Area. Destroying Capitol property may have lost him personal points amongst the Gamemakers, yet with the few strokes used to take down the massive tree, his Training score could only skyrocket. I could see a flaw in his hardened, aloof angle, however; as ferocious and powerful as he was, he didn't want to win for the fame and honor. The boy simply wanted to return home, to his life, his family, maybe even a girlfriend. And those determined spirits were some of the more entertaining to break.
Joyce Anne Irving was a prodigy with the axe as well as Barka. Better even, in terms of technique. The axe fit naturally in her hand, as if her fists themselves were fitted with blades. But when she dropped the hatchet and strode over to the bow and arrows, I saw this girl's cross to bear. She was an unnecessarily persistent, headstrong to a fault. She was clumsy with the archery, awkward whilst swinging maces, and plain useless at throwing stars; yet too proud to let herself fail.
Shea Gondor may be the pretty-boy of the Games, the classic beauteous flirt, but Tim Hart's rugged looks and manly charm were something different. Something about him, the masculinity, the lack of effort, was enticing for everyone in Panem; particularly the ladies. He shuffled in, offering a half-smile that caused half of the ladies in the room to blush and let out a heavy breath. There was no doubt he would have received a decent score from that alone; but he knew his way well around a knife. It wasn't often a male had the meticulousness to throw a dagger precisely, but he did this with ease. His ability to work a blade of any size from any distance would be as much in his favor as his unrefined lure.
Marley Deerlard flitted from station to station, versatile and able to manipulate everything; but that was her problem. She could do everything, not exceptionally, not great, not even necessarily well. Decent. The girl from District 8 was pretty enough, which could pull a few sponsers. But she had better have exceeding cunning and a trick up her sleeve to be able to survive.
District 9's Cedar Larkson was something I looked forward to every year, usually to be let down. Happiness. A Tribute full of joy, ready to be brought down by my iron fist. I tapped my feet underneath the heavy table with anticipation as he chatted with each of the Gamemakers, causing, doing the impossible by lightening the mood. He was inept with a scythe, a weapon of rare use even for those from the grain District. But the boy was a tragedy waiting to happen, and I couldn't wait.
Artemis Traymon shyly peered into the doorway when called, treading lightly out to the center of the floor. She ran a few rounds on the track with impressive speed, her breath not quickening once, and attempted to throw a few spears. In the middle of her dull display, she tripped, causing the rough edge of the mats to scrape the delicate-looking skin of her knee. She paused, kneeling on the floor, staring intently at the thickening blood. Standing up suddenly, she began to look around frantically, shaking at every sound that echoed throughout the vast room. She crouched next to the rack of knives, gripping one and running the pointed edge along her finger. Her arms trembling as she moved it this way and that, as if unsure of it's function. Finally, she spun around and frantically dug it repeatedly into a cotton dummy, occasionally yanking herself back in attempt to stop, but letting those inner demons take over. Those around me laughed and clapped at the show. I had been forewarned of this girl's history prior. Paranoia like this was a rare case in the Capitol, and even then it was easily curable. Multiple personalities such as this were a common after-effect of traumatic events; some of our own Victors suffered from it. The girl had clearly been exposed to unnerving violence at some point in her sorry life. She has behaved quite normally the past three days of Training, and I hadn't received any word of havoc caused by her hands. The slight injury from her fall had triggered this exceptional act of savagery; and if meager smears of blood could cause such an explosive reaction, who knew the fun he could have with her in the arena?
After having District 9's female forcibly removed, Thorne Marks of District 10 trudged onto the padded flooring. Although his skills didn't show it, the boy was deadly. A hot-head, too. I had watched him spit in anger at the Trainers and shout towards every Tribute that looked funny in his direction. Rage can get you pretty far into the Games, but it eventually becomes the downfall of these rash firebrands. He made a splash with his bit with the horses on Opening Night, but in Training, his only real endowment was with his rope; which can come in handy, of course, but a lasso or a noose can only help so much against a hulking beast with a cutlass. He made decent headway with a sword, but it paled in comparison before the work of those before him.
I remembered when Danny Montay took a club to the head in the hands of Sailor Seis from 6 quite fondly; he had been one of those happy-go-lucky player whom I loved to watch squirm in their final moments. I was hoping Kyla Montay, his young sister, would be similar. But the shy girl barely made eye contact, let alone conversation. She had standard results at the survival tests, and struggled with a sword. Her spears hit the mark a suitable percentage of the time, yet she still lacked the edge to survive. Perhaps I'd arrange little Lia Withers to bash her in her pretty, brown-haired head, give a little laughable irony. Both Montay's lost to District 6 underdogs. What a sight it would be!
Arden Wade was typical of District 11. He milled around with no real purpose, messing with everything but succeeding at nothing. He had a threatening look to him, his dark eyes glowering, enhancing the deep creases in his worn face. One of the other Gamemakers must have been pondering the same thing, because I heard a boisterous voice pry,
"Surely there's something more you have to offer!"
Arden shot daggers with his eyes behind his mop of hair.
"I could say the same for you," he flung back. Turning on his heels, he exited with a flourish before I had a chance to release him. Insulting those in authority is never a good choice; but we in the Games, we have a show to put on, and this little outburst may work in his favor.
Lila Carter was, in a word: fierce. A deadly character, too rough and hardened to be referred to as a girl. The woman was tall, thick with muscle despite the conditions of District 11. This girl was a survivor, and would not be taken down easily. In fact, she may be the one to beat. Her light brown skin glistened with sweat and her green eyes were daunting behind her scowl as she worked wonders with the knives, the axes, even a sickle. The girl was pure willpower. This could make her, or, it could become fun to slowly break her.
I called in Malachi Pike, District 12's Tribute, not expecting much. District 12 has never been a powerhouse, only producing one female Victor in all 47 years; Ashen Brand. She was the only Tribute to ever really give me so much as a chill; she completely lacked emotion. She could perform as brutally as needed to survive without batting an eye, taking a rest, or even losing her breath, winning the 19th Hunger Games within four days; still a record, especially at the age of fourteen. This male Tribute reminded me of her; he possessed the wicked ability to kill. I watched, entranced at his bare-handed tearing into one of our more durable dummies.
Lastly, Keishi Tayne, a strange name from District 12, marched straight towards the survival stations, shoulders dropping as she failed miserably. She glumly went from table to table, looking towards us for approval after every slight hit. The poor dear.
I scanned over my notes, humming a tune to myself as I went over every Tribute's strength, although taking extra care to pinpoint each weakness; that's where the fun was really at. It was all about entertainment, a good show. And this year, I had my work cut out for me.