It was midday. In the Capitol, midday meant glaring sun, cloudless skies, and sitting upon sun-loungers by the pool. Here in District 8, however, the sky was a miserable grey, fumes sticking to the air from the endless factory chimneys and threatening to choke the escort of the 61st annual Hunger Games.
Bianchi Leclerc stood upon the stage that had been erected before the city hall - a makeshift platform constructed from wood that Bianchi supposed would once have looked rather beautiful. Hints of red attempted to shine through the polished wood, becoming lost beneath the scratches and wear that had accumulated over the years. She stood at the front and centre of it, a line of chairs behind her seating District 8's well-to-do, although they all looked rather shabby in comparison to her - the Capitol's General Escort.
Being appointed General Escort had proven an arduous task. For the 60th Hunger Games, the President had proposed a new way of escorting the districts' tributes. One General Escort would reap all of the year's tributes - would travel the twelve districts over twelve days to conduct each reaping, and act as a spokesperson for the Games. Supposedly, this would make following the Games easier for the Capitol viewers: having only one escort to focus on would make for better viewing, and meant finding a commentator to sit alongside Caesar Flickerman would require no search at all. Bianchi was most excited to be a commentator; getting a taste for each tribute at the reapings would give her the upper hand.
After the 60th Games' General Escort - Nikolaus Silva - had stepped down from the position after one measly year, Bianchi had been delighted to be elected next. Her success of escorting District 1 during the 59th had evidently impressed President Snow - and her status as Flickerman's second cousin had always won her popularity points.
That being said, Bianchi could now see why Silva had left the job. After only eight days, she already felt exhausted. So many tributes, so many train journeys, and so many meetings could take their toll on a person. Bianchi wished to be back at home, watching the Games unfold from the comfort of her four-poster bed, but alas. Oh well, she thought, looking out at the smog-laden sky. At least it pays well.
By now, as the reaping was just about to begin, masses of children had filed into the city square. There were thousands of them standing in neat lines before the stage, fidgeting restlessly like little maggots trapped in cans. Bianchi's nose wrinkled at the thought. So many children - all wearing their laughable excuses of finery, all snot-nosed and crying and coughing from the industrial fumes that made Bianchi want to sit in a steam-bath for the rest of time.
One hand of the clock tower in the centre of the square ticked over, and at once began the bone-rattling sound of bells, playing out a dirge-like rendition of Panem's national anthem. Seconds turned into what felt like hours as Bianchi stood, waiting, watching as the children before her grew more restless and jittery, their parents standing behind the barricades beginning to chew upon their fingernails and embrace each other with pained, teary faces.
So pathetic, Bianchi had to shake her head a little as the clock tower began long, doleful chimes to count the hours. Snivelling and sobbing… This is an honour! You're lucky to be given such an opportunity!
She knew she couldn't say that, though. Instead, once the clock tower had finally silenced its tedious chimes, she gave the microphone a couple of taps to hear them resonate back at her through the speakers, and spoke loudly to the crowd of thousands before her.
"Welcome, my dear District 8, to the 61st annual Hunger Games!" As usual, no sort of applause or cheer was given in the pause that followed. "I am Bianchi Leclerc, honoured to be Panem's General Escort this year. But, I'm sure you already knew that!" Again, nothing from the miserable citizens below her. She fought off a scowl and replaced it with a beam. "As is tradition, let us watch this short clip, as a reminder of how our wonderful Games came to be."
Bianchi gestured above her, to where a projector shone upon the pale bricks of the city hall to create a screen. As the video began to play - the dreaded cinematic that she'd heard seemingly a thousand times in her life - she kept a smile plastered to her face and let her mind wander.
She probably should have worn a different pantsuit today. While dresses were pretty, Bianchi adopted pantsuits as her signature style. It was uncommon for the Capitol ladies to wear anything other than skirts and dresses this year, ever since A-lines had come back into fashion, but Bianchi Leblanc made it work for her. Today, she'd chosen a stunning cloth-of-silver material, but that was her first mistake. She'd wanted to stand out - have the sun glint off her clothes and make her look like the surface of a river come to life - but no. Instead, with the clouds enveloping any form of natural light, Bianchi merely blended in with the dull sky, dull buildings, and dull, dull sullen shells of people who inhabited this forsaken, drivelling district.
At least her hair looked nice. She'd dyed it sky blue to accompany her goal of looking like a beautiful stream, and wore it bone-straight down to her hips. The right side of it was shaven - another signature look of hers - and she had adorned her sky-like tresses with cerulean glitter to really make herself shine. If only she'd made her lipstick and eyeshadow blue too, instead of silver…
A moment of panic settled over her as she realised the music around her had stopped. The clip was over, and thousands of faces now stared at her as she came to life again before District 8.
"Well, wasn't that wonderful!" she chirped, trying to settle her beating heart. Oh, how she hoped she hadn't been standing like an idiot for too long. "Now, for the moment we've all been waiting for! It's time to choose our lucky tributes for this year!"
Bianchi Leclerc turned to her left, to where a huge glass ball sat upon a sheet of red velvet that had been draped over a pedestal. The Reaping Ball for the boys, filled with thousands of slips of folded-up card. The woman trotted over to it, thankful that she'd worn stylish flats instead of heels, and reached to the very bottom of the ball with one dainty hand. Her fingers closed around one card immediately, feeling almost as though it had swum into her reach. She removed her hand, returned to her microphone, and began to open up the slip of paper.
She'd already done this fourteen times. The first four had been exciting - had sent adrenaline coursing through her veins as she'd opened the little slip - but now, she felt almost bored. Bianchi Leclerc unfolded the paper, glanced at the name, and then called out into the microphone:
"Fabio Noil!"
The familiar hush followed her voice, and then came the murmurings. Every non-career district reacted in this way. It was so boring; where was the merriment - the elation? The cheers and the stomping and the squabbling to volunteer? No, in District 8, each boy stared at one another until eventually one of them stumbled out of their pen and began to shakily approach the stage, ushered by Peacekeepers.
Fabio Noil actually looked healthy for a lower class tribute. He was positively plump, unlike the spindly excuses for children that lined the square. In a black suit that looked slightly too tight for him, Fabio climbed the small steps to the stage, eyes huge and terrified in his chubby face.
"Fabio," Bianchi gave him an applause as the rest of the district remained silent. He mounted the stage, stumbled slightly, but still came towards her with his petrified black eyes. Plucking the microphone from its stand, Bianchi handed it to him as she asked a question. "How old are you, dear Fabio?"
His eyes were unblinking, never leaving hers, as though terrified she'd bite him if he looked away. "I… I'm… Thirteen…" He sounds it. His voice was cracking rapidly with his words, evidently in the midst of puberty.
"Thirteen," Bianchi tried to make that fact sound enthralling. "But you're going to try to win, aren't you!"
Giving a panicked blink, Fabio nodded.
Bianchi had to physically stifle a noise of annoyance. Another runt - another frail and snivelling child who would get nowhere and impress nobody. Likely with no talents, no drive, and nothing but fear to help him through the arena. Another weakling who would do nothing but waste Bianchi's time when she could be getting to know some other, more interesting tributes.
The woman took Fabio by the shoulders and placed him to the left of the microphone stand, which she then returned the microphone to. Heading to the reaping ball on the right-hand side, Bianchi reached to the bottom, grabbed the first slip she found, and returned back to her original place. The slip was opened, the name was read, and Bianchi announced the name:
"Isabile Silex!"
Watching the crowd part and another small body head towards the stage, Isabile Silex looked more like the average District 8 child. Slight, slender, and skinny. But, her gait was different. The girl approached the stage with square shoulders and clenched fists - rather different from the cowering, shuddering mess that had been Fabio Noil.
Despite their different physiques, and vastly different strides, however, Isabile looked rather like she could be Fabio's sister. They both had dark skin, Fabio's olive and Isabile's mid-brown, and both with black eyes and short black hair. Fabio had his slicked back with some form of grease, but Isabile had wild, tight curls that fell over her forehead as though she'd just rolled out of bed, the sides and back shaved down to the skin.
"And, Isabile," Bianchi offered her arm out to prompt the girl towards her. "How old are you?"
Isabile strode over to the General Escort with a face of thunder, dark shadows encircling her eyes of onyx. "Fifteen," she said, voice bold and cutting.
Interestingly, her eyes did not leave Bianchi's face either, but not out of fear like Fabio. No - Isabile stared down Bianchi Leclerc as though challenging her - anger seeming to heat the very air around her.
"Fifteen…" Bianchi was put off, finding herself incapable of pulling away from the fire behind the tribute's eyes. "… Very nice." When at last she composed herself, she turned back towards the silent crowd. "Well, we have our two tributes! One is fearful and one seems fierce; it seems we have a real interesting bunch on our hands this year! Don't forget to tune in tomorrow, when I'll be unveiling the tributes from grand old District 9! Let's give a hand for Fabio and Isabile!"
Almost reluctantly, the crowds of District 8 began to applaud. The children at the front seemed relieved, finally able to relax without the fear of being reaped, but the adults lining the rest of the streets of the city centre seemed hollow and frightened. More sheep.
As the reaping came to a close, Bianchi Leclerc noticed that the sky had somehow grown darker above her. Black had begun to curdle with the dark grey to create menacing clouds, giving the impression that there would be a tempest brewing. Peacekeepers marched the two little tributes into the city hall they stood before, and Bianchi couldn't help feeling - as she watched the brooding form of Isabile Silex's tiny frame disappear behind the doors - that the sky mimicked the young girl's mind. Dark, fearsome, and furious.
An angry tribute always made for an interesting one; the feistier they were, the thirstier they were for victory. Bianchi Leclerc's silver-painted lips began to smile. Perhaps the 61st Hunger Games could provide an interesting fight after all.