The scores are listed below, as I felt it better to reveal them now, then let Vivianne talk about them.

D1: Crescentia Monroe: 1 / Castiel Bomber: 10

D2: Hela Mistlyre: 10 / Moses Finch: 9

D3: Brita Edison: 4 / Edward Nelson: 2

D4: Siren Thalassa: 6 / Alton Kersey: 8

D5: Nyxandrea Nexus: 5 / Sorrel Nettleson: 5

D6: Mercedes Benson: 7 / Axel Richthofen: 7

D7: Sebastiana Ridgewood: 3 / Winston Thorn: 7

D8: Halley Verron: 6 / Darnius Paisley: 5

D9: Arley Harva: 2 / Filip Padderson: 6

D10: Evanna Lynn: 3 / Ruben Bolt: 8

D11: Tangaria Roolch: 4 / Asher Foster: 7

D12: Mariela Polaris: 5 / Reynolds Pelliarch: 4

Politicians hide themselves away

They only started the war

Why should they go out to fight?

They leave that role to the poor

-Black Sabbath, War Pigs

CHAPTER 16

THE STAGE BECKONS

Vivianne Vetura (41), Head Gamemaker

Her fingers close around the thick manila folder, the hasty scrawlings of her handwriting tucked neatly inside, and spreads it out on the desk.

"What an interesting bunch we're going to have this year," says Quinn with an amused smile on his face, literal moments after inviting himself into her apartment. Granted, I didn't lock the door, but a knock to know he was coming would've been nice. "I wonder which ones will give me a hard time on the stage?" He chuckles and rummages in her small alcohol cabinet to find a bottle of fruit-flavored vodka. Raspberry is his favorite. Vivianne sighs and runs her fingers through her long, gray-streaked hair.

It's going to be a long night for Panem's Head Gamemaker.

"The very first tribute admitted inside to show off her skills was District 1's Crescentia Monroe," says Vivianne, looking up at Quinn while her finger taps gently on the unyielding white paper. His face grows a strange grin, like he's caught halfway between a laugh or a look of confusion as he stares at her results.

"Crescentia Monroe, with a score of one. How is that possible?" He asks, furrowing his eyebrows.

"I'm not quite sure myself," says Vivianne tiredly. She certainly kickstarted one hell of an interesting afternoon. "She wasn't the selected volunteer, and I'm not too sure if she was either trying to keep us in the dark, or if she's too scared to try. She just stood there! The audience needs to understand her motives, so make sure you address this in the interviews for sure," the Head Gamemaker tells him.

She flicks through the portfolio. "The next two are fairly standard affairs. I've given Castiel and Hela both tens. Castiel's physique and proficiency with a sword earned him the number, and with Hela's proficiency in multiple weapons, her physique, and her demeanor, I would have scored her higher given her background, save that either of them would make a fine leader to keep the Pack in shape. I don't want an eleven muddying up her strategy with too much pride." She takes a sip of the black coffee sitting on the surface of the table, and inhales the wispy steam as it floats into the air.

Quinn nods in silent agreement with her decision, but she can tell he might make it a point to ask them how they feel about contesting for leadership. "Moses is a bit lower on my scale, ranking with a nine. His physique and his background of training do not bother me, but I query if he has what it takes to be a killer."

Quinn shrugs. "It doesn't help that he's the smallest Career, apart from Siren. And she doesn't technically count as a Career, either - " she cuts him off by moving onward. "Brita and Edward were both fairly standard affairs. I gave Brita a four for her skillset, and I think giving Edward a two might be a bit of a stretch. He seems to be a little obsessive with the Games, and I'm not sure how well that will serve him. Make sure you don't bring up family around Brita… her parents were abducted about five years ago for tampering with the designs of the arena. They used to work for us, you know. She doesn't need to get all riled up and tell the audience about our keeping of the peace."

"Alton's performance was impressive, but like Moses he seemed to be emotionally charged. It'll make for good TV if he's rooted for, but will that help him win? I don't know. I gave him an eight because though he showed skills in several weapons, there's never a guarantee something like a morningstar or a trident will be in the Cornucopia. You remember that year early on when there was nothing but hatchets? Either way, I'll make sure one of his weapons gets put in there. Siren was surprisingly good with spearwork. I'm not sure if she has had any formal training, but I think a six was earned by the way she can throw it. She might work to prove her spot in the alliance, like Talisa did last year."

"Moving onto Five, both Nyxandrea and Sorrel were both incredibly average. Nothing wrong with that, of course. But both Fives earned fives. Nyxandrea demonstrated skills that she picked up during training as well as great endurance, stamina, and spatial perception on the agility course. Sorrel was cheeky enough to ask for a five, so he was given one. I'd expect bold moves from this one," she says, tapping the black-and-white photo of the boy. She flips the page to one with the seal of District 6 on the top.

"Six surprised me a little. Just based off of the Recap, both tributes seemed a little hotheaded and off-putting to me. Mercedes was probably one of the biggest surprises, with being able to throw knives with an accuracy of nine out of thirteen hitting their mark. Coupled with sheer determination, we felt it right to score her at a seven. She could prove to be deadly. Axel's demeanor screams danger. He might not sound too dangerous, but a seven given his background and the combat skills he demonstrated is more than appropriate. I would have originally given the Sixes, well, sixes, but I think if the Careers view them as threats we could get a very interesting show."

The Master of Ceremonies nods, and a pleased expression flits across her face. After all, someone has to entertain the Capitol clowns. Might as well make a grand show of it, she grins. Her last few years have produced satisfying Victors for the Capitol to fawn over, and getting the training scores done right is a large part of drumming up the anticipation.

"Seven was a fairly normal group. The boy, Winston, had proficiency with an ax, as to be expected from a lumbering background, and he had some of the survival skills we usually see in older tributes from his District. I think a seven was appropriate. Sebastiana, on the other hand…" Vivianne purses her lips and blows a strand of hair from her face. "Trainers report no lack of energy or enthusiasm. Coupled with her age, lack of experience, and the stunt she pulled with her escort made me give her a three. If she can find the right allies, she may stand a chance. But her chances of winning are next to impossible."

"I wish I could say Eight stands a great chance of victory, but Halley being twelve caps her at the score of six. She has a lot of survival skills, drive, and she picked up some talent with a blade in the Training Center. Hell, I saw her finish the Gauntlet, but I think in most dangerous situations she might be trapped. Darnius was given a five for displaying some very average skills, strength, and hand-to-hand combat. He may be a 'dark horse' so to speak, but I wouldn't bet on him."

"Arley struggled to lift a weight, and did virtually nothing else. I don't see a lot of potential in her, and she's very thin. I think given the circumstances and her age, a two is necessary. Filip, on the other hand, grew proficient with a weapon and developed significant survival skills. A six was awarded to him as well."

Quinn looks out at the cityscape with a half-smile on his face, and downs another shot of vodka. "Slow down with that, will you?" She complains. He needs to be coherent, or the President will get on his ass.

"Calm down, darling Vivianne. You know I'll manage myself just fine." He shakes his head and wags a finger at her. "Don't mother the kids that aren't yours."

She sighs and gets moving with the folder. "Ten disturbed me. Officials say they beat their escort, Caius, on the train. Some digging explained that the girl has Dissociative Identity Disorder, which when combined with a lack of skills, warranted her a three. The boy, however… if anyone was to give the Careers competition I do think it could be him. He seems ruthless, and his weapon skills and a surprising adeptness at rigging traps earned him a solid eight."

"Tangaria's limp hurts her a little," Vivianne evaluates as she flips toward the end of her folder. "But a strong base of survival skills and slingshot accuracy merited a four. Similar to Darnius, she could be a dark horse under the right conditions. Asher… he's a wild card. The Peacekeepers report a lot of disruptive behavior and gang affiliation. I'd keep an eye on him once you get him on stage. He's very quick, and with his weapon history and the cheeky stunt he pulled with the bladed gloves, he might surprise us. I gave him a seven."

Her friend's eyes shoot up at this. "He seems to be getting friendly with the Career Pack as well, but the trainers do say that some of them look a little disgruntled by his inclusion. Then again, with the girls from One and Four already make this a fairly unconventional year. What's the worst that could happen?" He smooths down his candy pink lapels after they creased upon standing to retrieve a glass of water between shots.

"Finally, with Twelve I saw mixed results. Mariela won a score of five for her overall axework. She had decent accuracy with a tomahawk too, and I think she might be something to watch. Reynolds did show a strong lack of skills, and though he was definitely trying, I don't quite think a five was earned, so we ranked him with a four. You also need to keep family out of the picture for him. His family was killed years ago for speaking up against the Capitol. We don't want any traces of rebel propaganda coming up on live television." She closes the manila folder with a satisfied grin, glad to be done with her long-winded evaluation.

The man across from her nods in approval. "Sounds like quite the exhilarating bunch to watch. It'll be fun interviewing them, I think," he says. "Some of them may be different on the stage rather than in a room being tested. It's another… arena in itself." He shrugs, and she stands, pushing the chair back into the low-seated table. The glass makes a heavy clinking sound in her sink. I'll wash it when I'm finished with this fucking interview, she thinks with an eye roll she's thankful her partner didn't see.

The stage has always bothered Vivianne. The fame is glorious of course - why else would she fight to keep her position? - but the lights and the crowd always makes her sweat in the wrong places. It's one thing to issue a statement to the already critical Capitolites, but another to do it when the lights can't hide the sweat on her forehead. The crowd always pleases her, though, being enraptured when she speaks to them. They adore me, she grins. It gives her life that they can be so appreciative of her work. After all, it is the primary event each year in the Capitol - nothing else really happens - and she is responsible for the cheers and the dancing delights in their eyes.

She'd never admit it, but it's the fame that makes her feel so lionized. I can't get enough of it, no matter how much I sweat in front of them. Tarquinius Valentine straightens his tie and downs another shot glass of his raspberry-flavored liquid courage. "We best make our way down to the City Circle," he murmurs, drawing their gaze to the brightly-lit world beyond the balcony of her apartment.

He's always been better at his gig after he's had a little alcohol in his stomach. Then the crowd seems less demanding, the lights less harsh. Maybe it's why he's kept his job for the last fourteen years, she muses over her second cup of black coffee. This is what I'll need to get through it, she thinks, grinning into the brim of the cup so that he can't see her smile. She's had her job since the first Quarter Quell, when the last Head Gamemaker had resigned after putting on quite the show, culminating in the victory of the famous Aurelia Dior. Four years and running, and I'm already more famous than Quinn could ever be. She snorts and sets the coffee cup on the counter next to the sink.

"What do you say, Madam?" he asks her with an overly dramatic courtesy in his voice. "Shall we go face the masses?" The dusky kitchen light seems so small in comparison to what's waiting just a quick walk down the street. Vivianne gathers her hair in a well-practiced motion, tying it up into the austere bun that she know gives her a sterner appearance. The gray streaks in her hair are a mixture of stress and accentuated by stylistic choice, but the combination makes her look like someone to fear. Not like I kill kids for a living or anything. She grins at herself in the mirror, admiring herself as she knows that the crowds will be, thinking her to be much older and wiser than she really is.

She takes the hand he offered, his breath smelling of red raspberries. Like his hair. He certainly lives up to that ridiculous last name, she surmises as he leads her out of her own apartment. She locks the door quickly behind her and pockets the key, and Calvus and his friend fall into step behind her. She can tell it's him under the mask by the way he moves with stoicism and pride as he walks behind her. It's never bothered her that she is twelve years his senior, with he and his twin sister being on the cusp of turning thirty. The only thing that bothers me is having him so close, but not being able to have him hold me. Their relationship has been a secret these past two years, as Calvus is technically not supposed to have any sort of obligation other than to the Capitol. She sighs, wishing that the end of his enlistment would hurry along so she can spend time with him freely. Something to look forward to.

It's a shame, too, that Vivianne never knows what the stage will offer her, with its blurry temptations of fame and power and success. However, it's much easier to face with her lover at her back and her friend by her side. They exit the building to the stuffy nighttime air, the faint noise of premature cheering and screaming riding the stiff wind like whispers to curl inside her ears. The City Circle is likely already filled to the brim with anyone rich and fast enough to secure tickets. The glamour and dazzling lights wait ahead of her, and she smirks as she imagines thousands of eager faces leaning forward to listen to her words.

Panem isn't ready for this...

And neither are my tributes.

Tarquinius Valentine (38), Master of Ceremonies

It went about as well as expected, with the vast majority of Capitol residents turning up to listen to he and Vivianne reveal the scores and dive into some light talk about the preparations Vivianne has been working on for the arena. Nothing enough to ruin the surprise, but enough to keep them satisfied and on their toes. Of course, none of the tributes would hear this part: at this point each of them would have been whisked away from the screens and into the care of their stylists. Tonight is the big night, after all. He pushes past the second curtain from behind the stage, the heavy mohair curtain like a hand drapedon his shoulder. He shrugs it off and walks into the backstage area with a certain nonchalance expected of him going on his fifteenth year as the Master of Ceremonies. He nods at one of the hairstylists who is taking a smoke break and unlocks the door to his dressing room.

The interior of his room is quiet. He can still hear the faint murmur of the crowd from beyond the walls, and he runs his fingers through his gelled red hair as he goes to sit in his chair. The vanity lights are a bit bright on his eyes, so he dims them down a little, the lightbulb filaments burning into a low orange glow. He sighs, trying to tune out the invasive noise of the crowd.

He fills another glass of his favorite liquor, now that Vivianne isn't here to tell him to watch how much he drinks. Three hundred and twenty-two, he thinks. The number plagues him on a daily basis. Three hundred and twenty two, and soon it'll be three hundred and forty-five. The number of children he has spoken to on his stage. The children he has wished luck, only to see them die, again and again and again. Vivianne's face had lit up when he asked her how excited everyone should be for the violence this year, especially considering the skewed amount of high scorers in outlier Districts. "Very excited. I never fail to entertain," she had told them. Maybe that's why I never could have applied to work as a Gamemaker.

Seeing them die in enough. Enough to make him start drinking, so that maybe he won't remember the ones he talked to. Enough to make me feel comfortable sending them off.

"Tarquinius," a voice says from the corner of his dressing room. He looks up into the mirror, the faint light revealing the outline of a man he should have seen before. His blood chills as the man's glittery golden hair catches the light from the vanity. The President sits with his hands folded in his lap, a stern gaze fixed on the back of Quinn's head.

"President Ammon," he nods, swallowing a sudden spike of fear. He takes a white makeup powder and dusts some onto his face where the sheen of sweat has broken through.

The man stands and walks toward him, but Quinn doesn't dare move his eyes from the mirror reflection. A shark-like grin twists on his face, like he's hunting prey in treacherous waters, and Quinn shudders slightly as a hand is placed on his shoulder. What does he want from me? Shouldn't he be above coming to visit me on his own…? A hundred thoughts run through his brain, and he eyes the cup sitting in front of him, still half-filled with raspberry liquor. I wonder if he can smell it on me, he thinks nervously. "The tributes are all being dressed, correct?"

Not the question he was expecting, and the normal tone in the President's voice feels reassuring. "Yes, sir." He straightens the lapels on his signature pink blazer, reaching for the glass with a perceptibly shaking hand.

The President's other hand clamps down on his wrist, and one of Quinn's fingers catches on the glass and sends it crashing down to the floor. His head feels as though it is swaying now, out of fear or intoxication he cannot tell. "I think you've had enough, Mr. Valentine." The use of his last name only serves to put him more on edge, any pretense of friendliness lost as he stares into the man's dark irises. "Too much, in fact. I expect my Master of Ceremonies to be far more competent than that," the President whispers.

The shadows seem to catch in the wrinkles of the other man's face, creating a ghastly looking creature to stare into his soul from the mirror. The lights are just an inch away from Quinn's reach, but he doesn't dare move until the President releases his wrist. "Do you understand why I'm here?" he asks. "Because after fourteen years in this position, you'd think that Tarquinius Valentine would be much more competent. But you aren't," the President sneers, his face contorted in the mirror. Quinn's heart is hammering now, unsure of what he is supposed to say or do to please the older man. "You drink too much, Mr. Valentine," he says. "Vivianne should have not had to ask you to repeat your questions."

"I-I'm sorry, sir. I can d-drink less next time... I'll be coherent for the tributes. I promise."

"You had better get yourself under control, Mr. Valentine," he says darkly. "Both you and Miss Vetura are already under scrutiny this year. I expect you not to fuck this up for me again," he says, his mouth close to Quinn's ear. "Do you understand!?" the President yells the last sentence. Quinn claps a hand over his ear, nodding as the man's voice rings inside his skull.

"You understand how I run this show, Mr. Valentine. And as of right now, you're on thin ice. The re-election is next year, and I won't have one of my subordinates destroying my image for the public. Is that clear?"

Quinn nods a shallow nod so that he doesn't take his eyes off the President. "Clean up your mess, Mr. Valentine. I refuse to send you an Avox to take care of your own personal issues." With that, the dark presence at his shoulder is gone, opening the door so that Quinn can see a few flashes of white Peacekeeper uniforms before the door cuts off the noise of the crowd again. The silence now feels heavier, and he turns on the lights as bright as he can, eyes flicking back and forth between the corners of the room.

The liquor has already begun to stain his expensive rug, soaking the red fabric so that it looks almost like blood has been spilled. He feels queasy, and picks up the broken shards of glass as carefully as he can, ignoring the sharp pains as they cut into the soft pads of his fingers.

What the hell is happening to me?

Author's Note: Alright! So this was the first mainly Capitol-centric chapter for quite some time. It did have a focus on tributes but I hope it helps develop Vivianne and even Quinn a little better. What do you guys think about the evaluation? Any tributes you expected to rank higher? Lower?

The tribute interviews will begin next chapter; I am splitting them into two chunks. The first of which is Chapter 17: Burning Under the Spotlight, detailing interviews from Districts 1 through 6. Make sure to get your sponsor forms in! The link is in my profile, and I am currently working to take inventory of the few that have been submitted.

Have a nice day/night! :))