.
We cannot run forever, now
Gotta learn your lesson, child
Adeline Kapok, 20, Victor of the 6th Hunger Games
Two days.
Two days until Reapings, and until I discover the three new tributes I singlehandedly have to try and claw from the jaws of death. Two days until my life is over for another few months, and I can't see anyone that isn't directly Games-related. No issue, really. I've always indulged myself in being alone.
Two days until the scheduled Reapings. Two days until I hop on a train back to Seven, where I have to stand on the stage with whatever frumpy escort they stick us with and pretend to smile as three unprepared teenagers get dragged out of the crowd to participate. Two days until I can't pretend that life is perfectly normal anymore.
President Costello has reigned all nine of us into the Capitol for the past week – an extended pep rally, one could say. I'd like to say each victor went on for the duration of the week with a big smile and gung-ho personality, but I'd be wrong.
District One was pleasant this year. They're always pleasant, never outwardly displaying any anger or distaste for the world around them. I've bonded with Brielle Lavenge and Carrigan Rey, actually. They're a good pair, solid in their values and apparently nothing like District One was before the virus. Brielle's twenty-one this year. Carrigan sits at the ripe age of seventeen. It's likely that a mentee this year will be older than her; she's expressed her stress about this to me multiple times.
I don't quite like Three, but I don't think they like me either. Tabitha freaks me out. She never quite appears to be fully there. I've tried engaging her in conversation before, to no avail. I suppose it's to be expected; the stereotype of Three is that they're introverted geniuses who don't give much acknowledgement to anyone that can't piece together a windmill my scratch. Arrogant, and for no reason. It's no wonder that Three hasn't had a victor since the fourth Games; I'm sure Tabitha's been too far up her own ass to coach her poor tributes very well.
Six isn't much better. Garrett Kingston is timid. He's said all of four words to me ever since I won. I believe he's one of the oldest victors, however. Twenty-five years is a far cry from Carrigan, still a teenager. I don't know a lot about Six, really. Garrett's the only person from Six I've ever talked with. I know they were the only district after the virus catastrophe to keep their industry - but look how well that's done them. Having no new industries has provided them with no new sources of income. They're the poorest district in Panem, and clearly with the poorest social skills to top it off.
Seven is me, and if I say so myself, we're probably the best district, with the best victor - who could argue with me over that? I'm unproblematic and a joy to speak with, and historically gifted enough to know that my Games were the most heavily viewed in the Capitol to date. Not a brag or anything, those are just the hard facts.
Eleven isn't the worst district, I suppose. Just pampered. Their industries are the best and they know it, but certainly they don't have to act like everyone's outwardly jealous. Their first victor, Sterling Esther, is inebriated all the time – and though Analyn Rae claimed her victory just last year, it's evident that she thinks she's hot shit. Her victory tour was the most over-accentuated, privileged, month-long party I've ever seen. Sure, I was drunk for probably fourteen days straight – but never would I prepare some event like that for myself. Slovenly. Gaudy. Provocative. She should've used the money to help lesser well-off districts such as Six or Seven, rather than hosting wild gatherings in Eleven only. Giving victors the ability to have input on how they want their victory tours to be carried out are dangerous.
The renewed Eleven is bad enough, like the cocky classmate you had that wasn't cool in primary school but suddenly started selling drugs and suddenly advanced to the top of the social ladder. You remember what they were – scum – but everyone else seems to have forgotten. Twelve, however – that's the district that we should have blacklisted.
Custer Oreal and Cornelia Pfeifer. At some point they were the Capitol's babies – they're the same age, won just two years apart. Their Games were before mine – I barely paid them mind back when I was a mere teenager, unaffected by the Games and living my own life in Seven.
But now that I'm in the same pool as them, to mentor helpless tributes for the rest of our days, or at least until we drag another victor out of the arena? I've seen the two up close. And I don't like what I see – pigs, really. Two beady-eyed, animalistic victors that might be so vicious and disregarding for human life, you can't even classify them as humans. Custer and Cornelia could be brother and sister, with the same neat blonde hair and victimized look in their eye. Both twenty-two this year. District Twelve tributes go far every year, no doubt because they've been brainwashed by this psychotic mentoring duo that anyone not from Twelve is unworthy of human life. What do they do, exactly? I've no idea. I just know that they can't be morally good victors...
It's terrifying, how little regard they hold for anyone outside of their district. I pray not everyone from that district holds their same values, or another Twelve victor might send me over the edge. I'd take two hundred Analyn's over one more from Twelve.
Two days until I have to deal with that…
Claudio shifts in bed beside me, and I jolt. My sudden movements jerk him awake.
"Adeline!" he mutters.
"Go back to sleep," I hush him. "I have two very busy days ahead of me."
His smile glows white in the darkness. "Oh, you have no idea."
I snort softly. "You can't speak. You've had your precious arena done for months now. Your job is done, Claudio – let me bask in the glory of the Games for a while."
Claudio knows I don't mean what I say, but he doesn't retort – despite being head Gamemaker, he sure is a man of few words. "Lay down your head," he says. "Don't think of the Games. It's time to rest, Adeline."
His words soothe me, even if they hold little weight. I nestle into the crook of his armpit, trying to garner as much warmth as this air-conditioned Capitol room will allow for. "Dream of an arena of trees, a big old forest for my tributes to hold themselves up in," I say teasingly. "Birches and cedars and pines. Palms and cherries and oaks."
Claudio's snoring doesn't come long after – and before I know it, I've slipped away to sleep, too.
A/N: Boyer by Kevin Abstract.
Hiiii. Another prologue. The deadline is coming upon us, almost too soon! I would say I have the tribute list set completely, but there's still a few spots that are subject to change - and I hope they do, I know there's a couple of you out there who have been building your tributes for a while, and I'd love to see them still.
However. Submit sooner than later. The tributes this time around are great and I'm antsy to write them. Might fuck around and close submissions early if I get a tribute list I like within, say, the next day...
Anyway, just a little more world-building for you. Nothing big. My next update will consist of the tribute list and blog - get excited! Now leave me a sweet little review and make sure to wash your hands. Gn.