A Vivid Note: thank you all for not dismembering me for updating late. I have to say, you truly are my favourite audience to write for, you're kind and very responsive- but you're also quite honest when I need you to be, which I cannot ever fully express my gratitude for. Are you all looking forward to Mockingjay? I hope that they release it in Australia soon after they release it in America.

This chapter's tribute belongs to beach_babe, and he's an odd looking Capitol kid- that's for sure! His 'zebra' appearance is right up there with Liotta (Rapunzel hair/winged girl) and Vinel (purple skinned/green Mohawk boy).
Don't judge him on his appearance though. I was given a lot of leeway with this character (very simple description) so I made him a bit wiser than most. Sort of an exposition fairy.

Kiss-Kiss,
Vivid.

The Capitol Games

Laco Sykora; 17 years; the Capitol Sector 5.

How could anyone enjoy the Hunger Games? The name itself implies that its participants will be 'hungering', which can't mean anything pleasant in any sense. Of course- it's all very subjective since they don't even specify what the contestants are 'hungering' for.

Some of the guys in my class would argue that it's blood. The girls would suddenly become shy and not want to answer the question. Adults would evade the question entirely by saying it's an allusion to the 'dark days'- though never really explaining how.

...I'm not stupid. I know what the 'Hunger Games' means, and it has nothing to do with the contestants hungering for anything, that's certain.

-Because it's us. We, the Capitol- hunger for their blood. It's our Hunger Games.

That's why, when I watched the reading of the card... I didn't know whether to laugh or not; about the ridiculous irony of it all. The Capitol has become so enslaved to its hunger that even its own citizens aren't safe anymore.

This is probably the only time I'm truly glad that I am an only child. Today I don't have to worry about having a sibling taken away from me- or even a close friend to lose. I've been too introverted these past few years to make one. I suppose that's for the best, if only for today of all days.

I never enjoy reaping days; having to watch as those emaciated District kids are called to their grave, one by one. The only thing I enjoy is actually getting to see them for what they really are- rather than the lies the rest of the Capitol makes them out to be.
How many of them are, in actuality- just like me? They have hopes and dreams for the future, and day to day struggles that are far greater than mine...

-in the Capitol, we're expected to believe that they're comfortable living out there- practically side by side with the wilderness. However I know better than that. There's no way that they're happy- starving away to nothing as the Capitol lives happily in their hard earned excess.
-Why else would there be the Hunger Games, if not to keep them subdued? Well... aside from the Capitol's own thirst for that thick, clotting District blood...

"Lacey darling, are you almost ready-?"

Ah my dear optimistic Mother. Of course she's not worried at all by these games or this reaping. Then again, I've led her to believe that neither am I- even though it does gnaw away at me slightly.
The way she openly said- so crassly- how she dislikes being in the Sector opposite District 5 was almost repulsive, and had she not been my Mother I'd have called her out on it.

"Almost!" I shout back. It's a lie, but she won't bother opening the door to find out. "I'll be out in ten minutes!"

Mother's footsteps disappear down the short hallway, and I can hear her chirping merrily with Father as he prepares lunch. Perhaps if I was a merry person myself, I'd find comfort that my home is filled with this sort of platonic love.
-However depression tends to put a damper on that sort of thing. I'm thankful that my home life isn't worse, but it can't cancel out the moral injustice that plagues me wherever I go.

I wonder if anyone has even noticed that Laco Sykora is suicidal.

My bedroom mirror can't show that side of me, no matter how hard anyone might look into it. Who would suspect a 'regular looking' Capitol teenage male? I almost want to scoff at the word 'regular', since I think that can only ever apply to unaltered people.
The zebra stripes that coat my body are anything but ordinary- and the silver flecks of color that fill my irises aren't standard either.

My reflection shows what appears to be a very 'irregular', thereby normal, Capitol teenage male.

I wish it didn't.

-One day I won't have to feel this guilt that comes with being a Capitol teenager. Knowing that my predecessors are the reason twenty-four kids are forced to abandon their lives for the sake of bloodshed.
I wish there was something I could do to show that I'm above all that. I'm more than a piece in this totalitarian society.

I don't take too long getting ready. There's not really much point dressing up for something so stupid. I pull on the nearest shirt and trousers I can reach- and then finally retire to the breakfast table.
I'm met by a rather confused look from my mother. She reaches across the table to tug at the black shirt I've adorned.

"...you're not... dressing up?" She looks disappointed. "I could help you if you like darling-"

"I'm more comfortable in stuff like this," I say offhandedly. "Besides, I'm not in a... dressy sort of mood."

"Alright..." My mother sinks back into her seat. From this angle she looks like a scorned child, the way she swings her legs like that. "...excited...?"

I can't bring myself to reprimand her. She doesn't know that she's been brought up to revere a game that defiles human morality. My Mother is so peppy and vibrant- you wouldn't mistake her as the sort of person who'd ever dabble in that sort of thing.
But she does, by sponsoring a chosen child every year and moping when they don't win. Dad's doesn't bother to try and save the money anymore, since she fights hard. So far, over the course of her forty six years as a sponsor- she's sponsored three winners.

Three. I started to think she was a bit of a jinx.

She's a terrible judge of character. My Father is a peace keeper, and he says it runs in the family. I don't bother arguing otherwise- but I'm secretly terrified that I might be as well, without my knowing.

"Are you going to sponsor someone this year Mom?" I ask, sounding almost bored- without any intention.

"Yes, of course!" Mom gives me a playful wink. "I'm going to sponsor whoever is taken from this Sector, just to partake in the whole neighbourhood spirit of these games."

Oh god. Mom... my poor delusional Mother... neighbourhood spirit? Really? You can't really think that... can you?

"Do you know anyone who's going to volunteer?" Dad asks as he sits down with a mug of chocolate coffee. "I heard from someone at work that there's a boy a few districts over considering..."

At least Dad sounds reasonably depressed by all this. I shake my head, as I genuinely don't know of anyone actually willing to join this Quell- and get up to fix myself something to drink.

"Laco...?"

"Mm?" I murmur, looking up from the refrigerator. "What Mom?"

My Mother and Father stare at me in the rare silence. Dad drops his gaze to his coffee as my Mother shows me an odd but rueful smile.

"...nothing." She shakes her head. "We love you Lacey."

For the first time today, I feel a twinge in my chest. Then I smile back.

"Love you too guys."

Dad leaves before Mom and I do. Being a Peacekeeper requires him to help set up the reaping 'equipment', as tedious as that sounds. Not long afterwards my dear but flippant Mother came into my room and told me we too had to get going.

The walk there was almost silent. I say almost because my Mother is never truly silent at any time. She hums tunes, cracks her knuckles, coughs frequently... it's impossible to forget she's around. I'm surprised we're even related, what with my incessant need to be quiet.

"Are you worried?" She asks as we draw closer to the street, already full to bursting with our 'Sectors'' population. "About... about getting chosen?"

I shrug. My Mother can't have been expecting much more out of me- since my usual response to everything is little more than a jerk of my shoulders. However there's an expression of disdain on her face that suggests that perhaps she was.

As we draw closer to the delegated street, I'm silently overwhelmed by the sheer number of people gathered here. I knew that everyone in the 'Sector' had to be here to be counted, but I had no idea that everyone took up this much space.
What a pity the only thing that can bring us all together is something so degrading. If I had to liken this to anything, I'd say we all look like cattle being lined up for the slaughter.

-Although I look more like a zebra than a cow.

"I'll be over there, alright?" Mom points towards the left side of the crowd. "You... come find me after all this, okay?"

"Okay," I nod. Not wanting to leave her with just that, I reach for the poor woman and give her a soft squeeze. "Love you Mom."

For the first time in my memory, my Mother is silent. Her bottom lip trembling, she hurries away into the outside crowd before I can feel any worse than I already do. Knowing that there is absolute nothing more I can do in this moment- I proceed with having my name marked off the roster of names before I hide away in the crowd of seventeen year olds.

Though I can see several of my friends nearby I make no effort to try and contact them. They're all panicking amongst themselves- and I would really rather come to terms with my own fears than have to deal with everyone else's.
I'm not panicking so much for me. If I'm chosen that's just bad luck, but I don't know if I could bear to watch someone young and full of so much potential life be called to the plate. That's what I'm panicking about.

-perhaps if I cared more about myself, I'd be worried about how my being chosen would affect my peppy, vibrant coloured parents... but I just can't for some reason.
They'd deal with it, in time. At least they could know I lived for a decent amount of time.

Okay- now I know I'm deluding myself, and I know it- but what else am I supposed to think? I'm not stupid but I'm no optimist...

The joke of a mayor steps up and takes a firm hold of the microphone. An almost instantaneous wave of silence takes hold of the crowd as we prepare ourselves for the un-preparable.

"Citizens of, erm, newly elected Sector Five-!" At first I think his poor paraphrasing is just because he's speaking without a guide- but then I notice the cards in his hand. Oh god. "As it holds no relevance to us, we will be forgoing the Treaty of Treason. I now hand over the microphone to our Sector's escort- George."

George is a woman. I hide the smirk that thought brings to my face as the buxom woman steps up to the microphone- and, in a very un-escort like voice- calls out that she will be starting with the boy tribute.

Hmm. Irregular, but not too drastic I suppose. I can't help but wonder why though, since it's traditionally custom to say- in a very chipper manner 'ladies first!', but maybe there's a reason behind that...

She reaches into the glass reaping ball. I don't know what to do in the almost poisonous silence that follows- so continue to stare blankly at her. A family's life is about to be ruined because of the slip her nails grasp upon...

"Laco Sykora!"

...

...of course. Of course it'd be my family.

Well... I had said I lived for a decent amount of time.

-And at least this means there's only so many more children I have to watch die.

I lock eyes with the boy beside me, who gives me a reactive look- a mixture of guilt and pity. I turn about and quickly start working my legs back into functioning- focusing hard on not miss stepping and throwing away what's going to be left of my dignity after the games.
When I take my place on stage, George is already calling for volunteers- but I'm not naive. No one wants to be Laco Sykora right now. Let the boy in striped skin die instead.

If I listen very closely... I can hear my mother crying.

So I don't.

"Congratulations Laco Sykora," Yes. Congratulations of reaching the point every suicidal teen dreams of reaching. Being helped to the grave. "-and now to draw our- ah-!"

My head turns just in time to see the ball shatter. I don't often feel surprised, but this is the first time in years I've had my throat close up from alarm. The storm of the girls' names hurls itself through all corners of the crowd- and as the crowd is distracted by the shock- I see it.

The escort's hand.

Dipping inside her pocket.

No way.

"No one move!" I can't believe what I'm seeing. Hasn't anyone else noticed? "The female tribute is-!"

George pretends to look about for a random slip, but my eyes are fixated in shock on the already chosen piece clutched deep within her fist. Part of me, the more courageous part, urges me to shout that she's going against the reaping- but I don't. My voice is stuck in my throat, as it always has been.

Why is the escort sabotaging the female reaping? What purpose will it serve- and who on earth is the unlucky girl to have her name on that fated slip-?

"Ari Saint-Claire!"

No. My eyes flick immediately to the age sixteen section for the girls- and right on the outskirts I find her. This is impossible. Why her? Of all people- why her? Her eyes fly up to mine and she just stares in shock as George calls out for her again.

"-up here if you please!"

Ari Saint-Claire, the teenage singer. To say that I knew her was understatement, because everyone knows her. She was forced upon us as a role model- obviously against her will. I might have even gone so far as to have said I liked her songs- if someone asked me my opinion on her before all this.

Why? Why her? To completely go against the entire reaping just to call her name... what possible kind of agenda is in place here?

Saint-Claire takes a while getting up to the stage, having difficulty with her father along the way. I watch in surprise and curiosity as her small body- shaking with anger- makes its stiff way up the steps and beside mine. She looks at me, and I can do nothing but stare back at her in wonder- even though all I see is desperate anger in her eyes.

Does she know that she's been set up? That nothing was in her favour this morning? As George makes the two of us shake hands, I can feel my heart begin to beat faster as the blades of my fingers graze her wrist.

She's warm. The buzz of the crowd dies away in my ears as I retract my hand, still unable to take my eyes off the so softly dazzling girl that I and the rest of the district had considered beautiful. One of the few beautiful things to ever grace the Capitol.

...and it's being taken away.

The crowd cheers and I can feel all my self-hatred begin to die away in the static of their voices and cries as a new and more important life choice becomes abundantly clear.
I'm not going to die in these games for no reason. The fact that I saw the slip pulled out of George's pocket confirms that I have a great reason than that.

I have been given a purpose.

Mom won't let go of me in the velvet tent constructed for the tributes' final goodbyes. Dad just stands there in his peace keeper uniform- clearly unable to fully comprehend that his only son is marching off for a completely irrelevant war.

"I'm s-s-so sorry!" My Mother chokes out repeatedly, though I can't see why. It's not her fault I was chosen. "I love y-you-!"

"Don't be sorry..." I murmur gently, stroking her head softly as she clings my shoulders. "You'll be okay..."

"W-What about you-?"

"I'll be okay too..." I smile. I'm surprised by how natural my calmness is. "You'll see... its okay..."

My eye draws to my father, who is fiddling desperately for something in his pocket- perhaps trying to distract himself from crying like my Mother so freely is. However I'm surprised when he brings out a handkerchief and holds it out for me to take.

"It was your grandfather's," he says bluntly, and perhaps a little gruffer than he intended to sound. "I... you can take it for your token if you haven't got anything else..."

Ah Father. We've never had many father son moments in our duration of life together, but I'll accept this as your apology. I take the soft piece of cloth in my hands and examine the initials 'A.S'.
Perhaps if I was more of a clown, and this wasn't such an awful situation- I'd have made a joke. Instead I use it to wipe my Mother's face of her tears before the Peace Keeper comes along to take the two of them away.

"...good luck son." Dad manages to croak.

"...I love you..." Mom whispers, clutching his arm tightly. "I love you Laco..."

"I love you too." I smile and close my eyes. "Don't worry, you'll see me again."

Just not in person. Unless you count corpses, which I don't.

Alone, I sit in the quiet darkness of the velvet tent- knowing full well that I will have no more visitors today. I had no close friends, or relatives... or siblings. Just my parents and I don't even have them anymore. Just a tear stained tissue with the initials A.S...

I don't even know what my grandfather's name was. I guess I never will now.

Ari seems to have a stream of visitors still. I can hear all the voices- from girls who seem to be her friends to boys who just seem to be fans. I can't hear her speak, but I can hear the rest of them clear as day- which seem to hint that she doesn't feel anything for this crowd she attracts.

I can't blame her. The Capitol has a lot of people, but not all of them are that easy to sympathise with. How could they be when the majority of them love living in excess without even thinking of those who suffer for that lifestyle?

...A.S... Ari Saint-Claire... or would her initials be A.S.C...? I fiddle with the handkerchief as I listen quietly to the happenings inside her tent.

My purpose still feels strong in my heart. For whatever reason the Capitol is trying to kill this girl, I will do my utmost to prevent it. She must be more than just a songbird to mean this much. Personally I... I don't see what, but it must be something...

...or it must mean something... for the Capitol to want her dead, on live television.

She asks the Peace Keeper for her father. I stand up beside the thin fabric walls that separate us and listen as the events unfurl. At first it's just a woman's voice... and then Ari whispers something... and then there's pleading...

"-Get out, get out, GET OUT-!"

Something flickers in my head. A realization.

Her father. He works for the government doesn't he? As his voice trembles as he tries to reason with his frantic daughter- my breathing becomes heavier as I begin to piece together my reasoning.

-it's his fault. His daughter has been chosen for something he's done.

I can't fight the urge any longer. Taking a risk, I pull the curtains to the side so I can see, and I just manage to catch a glimpse of her father's back- while Ari points to the door with her eyes clenched tightly shut.

"...you can't win... you can't win..."

Silence. I let the curtain fall back as my own stunned horror wells up from inside at those words. What kind of father would say that to his child? To the child that has spent her entire life supporting him with her voice?
...how can he do anything besides love her for what she's done for him...?

That settles it. He has to be the reason why her name was called. That's why he's so adamant that she'll lose, isn't it? The man doesn't realise that she's not doing this alone... anymore.

Ari Saint-Claire doesn't know me, just as I don't really know her. But if there's a chance that I can help her live out there, I'm going to take it. And I have to make that clear now.

Quietly, I push my way into her side of the tent. The velvet gently moves aside and I can see her, her hands pushed against her eyes to stem the crying. A small beat of pity runs through me as I rediscover my voice-

"...I think you can win."

Her eyes snap upwards, and I fight back the smile they seem to endow me with. It's hard to believe that this is the girl who is played up to be the perfect chipper song girl of the Capitol. Here she is, startled and crying- forced up against death itself.

"I'll be your ally," I say as seriously as possible. "We can't beat these games alone, but we can together."

She doesn't know that by 'we' I mean her. I have no desire to win these games. All I want is for what little beauty there is in the Capitol to remain- and if I can help that by keeping her alive, then I'll die a martyr.
...and Ari Saint-Claire won't have to hide behind her father's charade anymore. It'll be a new beauty. True beauty.

"We'll show them the real you."

I hold out my hand. It's just a symbol, because I know in my heart that even if she rejects it I'll still fight to keep her alive. But it'd be so much easier if I can do this with her cooperation.

-But something is working behind those eyes. Those eyes so used to hiding away the pain. I finally allow myself to smile as her hand twitches and reaches for mine.

I'll make sure you live.

Ari Saint-Claire.

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