"There's nothing left to choose."
Trapeze Romero, District One
Victor of the Tenth Hunger Games
They still don't understand.
As much as we've tried to get it through their thick skulls, Ceira and Pstika have yet to understand what they're going to accomplish. The first step of victory is knowing the path ahead, and based on the superiority practically emitting from the both of them, I highly doubt they fully understand what tomorrow holds.
For it's those who under the most that will claim the most tomorrow, the following day, forever. The road never truly ends. As in every component of life, there are flukes. The naïve have gained the crown more than once, but in the vast majority, the unprepared end up in a life of misery anyway. Daisy Asporin. Jon Kohl. Gloria Springs.
Death would have served them better.
Ceira enters the stage to a beastly roar from the crowd, so close to the blood they crave. The meaning behind their applause goes unbeknownst to Ceira, of course, as she daintily takes a seat besides Hamlet. She shamelessly twirls her hair, giggling childishly.
Had she pulled this trick a decade ago, no one would have foretold the ditzy girl from One could be a lethal murderer, but after Pasiphae…who knows? A mouse could win the Games and nobody would even blink.
"Ms. Villaine -"
"Ceira is fine," she quips, fluttering her eyelashes almost inhumanly.
Hamlet grins. "Ceira, who do you see as your largest enemy?"
"Myself, most definitely. As it is, I've received all the training I need. The only thing that could hold me back is myself."
Hamlet frowns. "Unsure, are we now?"
Ceira laughs aloud. "I said I could hold myself back. Like hell is it actually going to happen."
"And yet that's your largest enemy?"
Ceira smirks. "Tells you something about the other tributes, does it not?"
Pstika follows next, grimly glaring at the crowd and Hamlet alike. I sigh profoundly as Pstika proceeds to ignore the crowd entirely, sitting next to Hamlet without so much as acknowledging him.
He deflects Hamlet's barrage of questions with a simple 'yes' or 'no', and occasionally chooses silence to speak for him.
"Folks, we have one of our highest scorers before us!" Hamlet pauses, turning to Pstika with a grin. "Mr. Crest, how do you think success in the Capitol transfer to the Games?"
Pstika, for once, acknowledges the question, knitting his eyebrows in thought. The expression quickly fades as the normal, superior air takes its place. "I've won this Game. I'll win the next just as easily."
Likely, the Capitol will eat this up. To be fair, Pstika stacks up well against the others; brusque, intimidating, ruthless. The sponsors will be clawing at each other for tributes like him; they always have.
I suppose I should be happy for him. It's my job to secure Victors for District continue my legacy by passing down the torch to the newest Victor.
But I'd rather let both of them rot in the arena if the alternative is an endless hell outside of it. The suffering of life after victory far outweighs the bliss of the moment by leaps and bounds.
But they don't know. They won't know until it's too late.
Cobble Wix, District Two
Victor of the Fifteenth Hunger Games
They still don't understand.
Or at least, it doesn't seem as if Laela or Xander understands each other and the bond they're supposed to share. As district partners, it's an unsaid rule of District Two to not to kill each other, but both seem keen to break that rule. The consequence, of course, is to return home half pariah and half hero, but neither seems particularly worried about that.
All either of them can focus on is their petty hate and distrust of the other. There's only so much I can do if my tributes end up simultaneously slitting each other's throats.
As salt on the wound, because our tributes aren't allies, Cynthia and I can't collaborate in sponsors, plans, anything. Cynthia's just getting her feet wet; she's not felt the grief of losing a tribute, of not being able to do anything. She's not had to look the family she's failed in the eye. She's not seen their faces at night. She's not heard their screams, begging for help she cannot give.
And now, she must face it alone.
Laela enters the stage with her signature smirk, accompanied with a golden silk robe. She beams at the applause the audience gives before taking her seat.
"Laela, what do you have to say in regards to your score?"
A flash of annoyance disrupts Laela's demeanor. "Clearly, the Gamemakers didn't enjoy the performance as much as I did. I'm sure all of you would've given me higher, right?"
The crowd roars in agreement, and Hamlet claps along, chuckling. The two of them fair well, coasting through the interview with the audience screaming and cheering with every answer Laela returns. I even find myself grinning occasionally as she speaks of her misadventures of Two.
Laela exits the stage with the audience in a full uproar, fully supportive of her. Despite her evident mishap in Training, Laela has won the crowd with ease. As a Career, the first step to victory is distinguishing yourself above the others.
In comparison to Ceira and Pstika before her, Laela has accomplished that without difficulty.
Xander quickly replaces her, calmly acknowledging the crowd in his brick-red suit. "Mr. Lutz, what do you think is your greatest asset?"
Xander chuckles lowly. "My keen sense of bullshit comes in handy pretty often."
The crowd laughs along, and Hamlet halfheartedly tuts at him. "Mr. Lutz, there are children watching!"
Xander shrugs. "Will they be watching when the bodies start getting cold?"
Hamlet laughs nervously, rushing through the interview as Xander answers bluntly and darkly.
To no one's surprise, the buzzer rings rather early.
The crowd has quieted substantially after Xander's abrasive interview, but he's no buffoon. He knows what he's getting himself into. Already, the crowd is anticipating Aldora and Adrian, hoping for a more exciting Career to appear.
Albeit being a high-scorer and a trainee, Xander can fly under the radar because he's out of the pack as long as he wants. Until even the Capitol is shocked at what he can do. What he wants to do.
But as much as he covers his tracks and works to go unnoticed, Laela will never forget him.
Celesto Rollins, District Three
Victor of the Twenty-Ninth Hunger Games
They still don't understand.
But neither had I. Hell, this time last year, all I could understand was staying alive. And for a long time, that worked. They all forgot about the little boy from Three; all eyes were trained on Darius and Talon, not little old Celesto behind them.
Only when the two older boys dropped dead had they acknowledged me, poison in hand.
But Evangeline and Caleb don't have that mentality in them. Not yet. Both are methodical and careful, and that's great. But when push comes to shove, they need to be able to do what it takes to live.
Right now, neither of them have that in them. As much as they both try to convince themselves that they'll do it when the time comes, they can't.
For their sake, and mine, one of them better have it soon.
Evangeline twirls onstage in her beaming, yellow sundress. Three is fortunate to be placed in between the Careers, where the hype is still in the air. By the time Twelve reaches the stage, at least a quarter of the seats will be empty.
Part of me wishes they were already gone. Part of me wishes that we were all back home, in our rightful, miserable places. But another, larger part of me revels in these Games. Silently, of course. Good word of the Games is practically treason amongst the ranks of any district.
The Games took me out of an impoverished hell. Why should I be mad about that?
"Evangeline, what's your game plan for tomorrow?"
She scoffs. "Telling the whole world about my plan kinda defeats the purpose of having a plan in the first place."
Hamlet pretends to ponder for a moment before returning to her. "Oh, don't be stingy. Surely you can give us something!"
Give them nothing, I urge internally, but my thoughts fall upon deaf ears. Evangeline smirks slightly, shrugging. "The Careers won't see us coming."
"Us?"
She shrugs. "Us," Evangeline returns, smiling. "Me, myself, and I."
Thereafter, Evangeline departs and Caleb takes her place in a gem-encrusted white suit. The energy in the crowd visibly tapers in the absence of Careers, but Caleb either doesn't notice or doesn't acknowledge it. Hamlet, however, takes to revving the crowd back to life.
"Mr. Markland, how do you envision your first kill?"
Caleb is visibly thrown off for a second – as is the rest of the audience at the question – but he recovers rather quickly. "It's hard to envision much of anything without the rest of the scene set, y'know? I don't know what'll be around me, what the arena will be like, anything."
Hamlet nods in agreement. "Let me rephrase. Who do envision as your first kill?"
Caleb stares into the audience with dead eyes. "Anyone who gets in my way."
Mags Hali, District Four
Victor of the Ninth Hunger Games
They still don't understand.
The cool touch of wine grazes my lip as I down another glass. The other Victors don't bat an eye, but several Capitolites watch me down the stuff with disgust, humor, or a combination of both.
"Rot, you nasty mongrels!" I slur to no one in particular, stumbling as I make my way to the nearest couch. Through hazy eyes and mangled senses, I make out Hamlet announcing Aldora's entrance as she takes to the stage, adorned in an aqua dress and long ringlets.
I groan inwardly, curling up into the couch as the cursed girl enters the stage with a confident grin. Neither of them understand. The whole damn district is in a blissful paradise, actually believing that the Games can fulfill all the childish wishes they've ever had.
All the Games are good for is destroying homes and burning the memories that once lived and thrived there. The Games took away everything I held close and swallowed it whole.
Yet here are two ballistic children, throwing their lives in the wind. For years now, we've had volunteers, and no one has won since Gavin all those years ago. But they still volunteer. Every year.
It sickens me.
It dishonors the life of my son.
"Aldora, tell me, why did you volunteer?"
Aldora smiles some, anticipating the question. "I volunteered to make something of myself. For too long, I've gone unappreciated, unknown to Panem. These Games will make me into the woman I want to be."
Hamlet grins. "And who do you want to be?"
"Someone who others can look up to. Someone who can inspire the future generations to fight for their beliefs and dedicate their lives to our famed district," Aldora responds, earning an ovation from the crowd.
I laugh aloud as she exits, leaving a trail of water that quickly evaporates behind her. It's people like this wench that ruin the chance of honoring the fallen. All anyone sees is Victors. Not the rule, but the exception. The fallen are forgotten because of this twisted idea of glory.
Adrian, adorned in a similar aqua suit with water droplets evaporating behind him, passes Aldora by as he takes her place onstage. "Adrian, what will you miss from home?"
Adrian grins cheerfully. The sincerity in his smile hurts me; soon enough, all shreds of truth in him will be burned to ashes. "I mean, there's a lot of things and people I'll miss. I'll miss my little cousin – she's eleven – and my dad and my friends a whole bunch," he murmurs.
Hamlet nods sympathetically. "What about the arena; what would you like to see there?"
Adrian shrugs. "I don't think the arena will really shape the Games all that much, if I'm honest. It's about the people in them, you know? And we – my allies and I – we're not going to fail no matter the arena. We've got this in the bag," he exclaims, grinning borderline childishly.
I almost don't want him to die. Almost.
Mirella Seymour, District Five
Victor of the Twenty-Seventh Hunger Games
They still don't understand.
Both Krynne and Sullivan still have this silly semblance of hope in them. Hope in and of itself is a good thing, fuel for victory and determination and whatnot. But their hope is not to just live, but to live with clean hands and clean consciences.
They can ride on their moral high horses with me, but if either want to live, they'll understand soon enough. You either leave the arena with blood on your hands, or in a casket. I chose the blood.
As it appears, both are going to choose the casket.
Moreover, neither seems willing to even consider offing the other. As absolutely heartbreaking as it is, only one of these buffoons is going to get out of there alive. And at the end of the day, the one who strikes first wins. This moral crap is only putting one foot in the casket for both of them.
The sooner they nix the shit, the more and more of a competitor of these Games they'll become.
Krynne contentedly hops onstage in a grey romper and a bright yellow hairpin, beaming as the audience welcomes her with moderate interest. Most of it is due to the Career boy before her, anyway, not her.
"Ms. Krynne, where do you think you will place in our Games?"
Krynne seems perfectly comfortable with her impending doom. "First, of course," she remarks. "If I sit here and think up all the ways I could possibly die, I won't have time for legitimate plans and ideas to stir in the old noggin," she adds, tapping her skull for good measure.
"That's the way to think!" Hamlet exclaims, patting Krynne on the back. I shake my head as the naïve, idiotic banter continues. The only people worse than the moralistic creatures are the deluded ones.
Luckily enough, Krynne's three minutes are soon up. Sullivan replaces her besides Hamlet, who brushes through the formalities quickly.
"Mr. Durham, who is going to be your first target in the arena?"
Sullivan shrugs. "I don't have a designated enemy, if that's what you're asking. I'm going to survive. Survival's my target. The others will off themselves, as far as I'm concerned."
Hamlet nods along. "A viable strategy. How long do you think that will last?"
"As long as it lasts," Sullivan returns frankly. "There's no specified point where all hell breaks loose every time . That's what makes the Games interesting. The variability, the change. Whenever it's time for me to start playing the game, I'll play. But not a second earlier."
Hamlet continues to force a conversation with the less than willing Sullivan, and I can't help but groan as he continues to prove difficult. This mentality to refuse the Games is what's going to put the both of them six feet under.
Because if we're being frank, The Hunger Games are little more than a game. On a bigger scale, maybe, but still very much a game. A betting game, I suppose.
The winner is just the one to put the most on the line.
Argeliba Morse, District Six
Victor of the Thirteenth Hunger Games
They still don't understand.
It doesn't appear as either Rian or Sia truly understands the magnitude of what is to come. Both children treat their future as a game, something to toy with and doll up. The Games are far more than a child's pastime, but the both of them either don't care or can't tell. I'm not sure which is worse.
At the very least, I can appreciate that I have two able-bodied tributes this year. In years past, I've received two druggies, incapable of doing more than a simple walk before collapsing from withdrawal or exhaustion.
But as physically adept as Rian and Sia are, they're far from mentally strong. Too easily Sia cracks under the pressure of something trivial, and Rian doesn't seem capable of deciding which path he's going to take: a killer or a corpse.
And there's nothing I can do to change that. As a mentor, all I'm really good for is delivering sponsors when I see fit and trying to give as many tips as I can. I can't change who they are and what they're capable of.
I suppose that's the worst part of this. I'm responsible for their lives, but at the same time, I can't do anything to change fate. Every death is worse than the last because they all snowball, piling upon one another until I go mad from it all. All of their faces begin to mesh into one large composite face, all lifeless and pale.
Their cold eyes follow me in my sleep. Because I failed them. Because I couldn't do anything to save them.
Not again.
Sia skips onstage in a white dress that stops at her calves. The crowd has dimmed considerably, seeing as their flawless Careers have up and went already, but Sia is unfazed. Cheerfulness, perhaps a bit too much, emotes from her.
"Sia, if you do not win, who would you like to win in your place?"
Sia quirks her lips. "Damn, you're killing my mood, dude."
The audience and Hamlet collectively laugh as Sia, pleased with herself, laughs alongside them.
"Dear, it's been ages since I qualified as a dude, but thank you, thank you."
Sia nods, shooting Hamlet a playful smirk. "Anytime, dude. It's what I do, ya feel?"
Not soon enough, the ringing buzzer prevents Sia from making an even larger fool of herself as Rian takes her place.
"Rian, what do you hope to accomplish in the Games?"
Rian scoffs incredulously. "Are you kidding me? I want to live. I don't want to leave my family and my friends any longer than I have to."
Hamlet nods. "And how do you plan on doing so?"
"I'll do anything I have to," Rian mutters in response. He breaks eye contact from Hamlet as the words fall off his tongue.
"Anything?"
Rian purses his lips tightly before nodding. "Anything."
A/N: Here's a quick reminder to vote on the Final Eight poll on my profile.
Not much to say this time around. Reviews are joy. See you next Sunday c;