Here we go, starting the reapings.
Santana Perez District 1: 18M
Day Before The Reaping
Visiting the hair salon was more of an impulsive decision than a planned one for Santana. He could occasionally be that way, not that he would ever try to change that.
Santana was certainly not a perfect human. He was under no such silly delusions as so many of his fellows at the academy were. Honestly, some of the people there just boggled Santana's mind. All that being said, Santana didn't mind being who he was. He was unapologetic about it. Some people loved him, and some hated him, but better to be polarizing than to be forgotten.
If there was one word to describe him, it would be that word: polarizing.
Santana was master of grabbing attentions of everyone, for good or for ill. He was a performer, an actor, singer, and comedian. From a young age he knew he was born for the role of entertainer, so much so that he often wondered what substantive personality he actually retained beneath all the layers of gab.
He pushed the door open. The Hair salon was a simple structure made of red bricks with a glass door. Inside, there were three chairs designed for the customer to receive their cut along with a few more seats to wait in. The three chairs were filled, so were two of the lobby seats.
Santana sighed to himself. He supposed he would just have to wait.
"Well hello Santana," Simone greeted him cheerfully.
Simone was one of the three barbers. She was the youngest of the three ladies at eighteen years old. Her hair was cut in a short bob, but always carefully curled to evoke a slightly wavier motion in her hair. She was really quite pretty, one of the best-looking people he knew.
"Congratulations on your nomination," Simone continued. "I heard you're the chosen male tribute this year."
"You're too kind," Santana said with an easy lopsided smile.
"Well, I look forward to seeing you," Simone said. "I know you're going to do great." She winked.
"I plan on it," Santana replied, making a performative bow.
Santana took one of the empty seats in the lobby, content to wait his turn in line. He eyed Simone as she worked her fingers through her client's hair. It was really too bad that he hadn't managed to take her to bed yet. Maybe he could rectify that mistake tonight?
Next to Santana sat a young man, probably seventeen or so. Santana thought he recognized him as one of the trainees at the career academy, but he couldn't be sure.
The boy was cute. He was dark skinned with a messy jerry curl atop his head. Were he to stand, Santana estimated he would be slightly less than six feet tall, but he was muscular with powerful quads. His face bore a serious expression, like he was contemplating how to stab someone. Santana liked that look.
"You're at the academy right?" Santana asked, trying to make conversation to stave off boredom.
The boy turned and looked to Santana with the same serious expression. Damn, now Santana had a choice to make about who he was going to try to take back with him tonight. That, 'I'm going to stab you expression' was really hot.
"Yeah," The boy answered curtly.
Maybe too serious, Santana thought to himself. He preferred girls like that, but occasionally you had to dip a toe into unfamiliar waters.
"I'm Santana," He said, putting on his most flirtatious smile. He stuck out a hand to shake.
"Everybody knows that," The boy said, cutting him off. He eyed Santana's hand suspiciously.
"A bit feisty are we?" Santana questioned, leaning uncomfortably close to the boy with the jerry curl. "What's your name?"
"Markus," He answered, leaning away from Santana. "Can you back off a bit?"
"Markus," Santana whispered to himself.
He received a sudden urge to touch Markus's jerry curls. Not being one to hide his desires, Santana reached up and twirled a finger through his hair.
"I love your hair," Santana said softly.
Markus slapped his hand away and stared at Santana with flaming eyes.
"Don't touch me," Markus said deadly serious.
That just turned Santana on more. He could play the submissive role if that was required. He was a great actor after all.
"Sorry," Santana replied meekly, sitting back in his chair. "It's just so beautiful."
With a vicious look, Markus promptly slid over into the next chair over. It would just take a little bit of time. Santana could feel it wouldn't take too much longer for him to get what he wanted.
Santana sat comfortably and quietly until Simone called him up to work on his hair. That was unusual for him. Quiet was not something Santana did well. He liked the spotlight, he wanted everyone to look at him, and he had a natural discomfort in sitting calm and still.
"What are we doing today?" Simone questioned. "I'd imagine you want to look good for the reaping tomorrow."
"I look good now," Santana quipped.
Simone rolled her eyes playfully.
"What do you want me to do with your hair?" She asked more firmly, but still with the same playful undertone.
Santana eyed his hair. It was a voluminous black color, matching his eyes perfectly. His hair was wavy and hung down to the nape of his neck.
He wondered briefly what he would look like with a shorter haircut. Maybe a neat fade with a spikey top, or a mohawk. As he looked at his hair though, Santana couldn't bear to cut it all off. He was too attached to this particular look.
"Just take some of the weight out of it," Santana said finally. "Leave the length."
"That's it?" Simone asked. "You don't want to do something more special?"
"It's already special," Santana said with a smirk.
Simone shrugged and began to cut his hair. He loved the feeling of her fingers running through his hair as she cut through the long locks at the back of his head.
While she walked around him, Santana found himself picturing her in his bed. She was hot, but as he looked at her, he wondered if she would be hotter if her beautiful face was smashed to a bloody pulp.
Santana had a fascination with blood, the way it dripped down skin and lay in pools on the floor. Depending on the artery or vein you cut, the blood could either spill out as a thick gelatinous substance or spurt out like a fire hose.
He loved the feeling of blood touching his face. He loved the taste, that slight metallic tinge. Just watching blood spread from a body was wonderful. Maybe she would be better if she was dead, her head bloodied and beaten. She would certainly be more amenable to trying more adventurous positions if she was dead.
"All done," Simone said, spinning the chair towards the mirror.
The thought of blood weighed heavily on his mind still. Looking at his red shirt and pants, he found himself wishing that the rest of him was the same color. Once he was in the Games, he could accomplish that. For now though, he would have to wait, except for one part of his appearance.
"Die my hair red," Santana said almost vacantly.
"What?" Simone asked curiously.
"Die my hair red," Santana said again, louder this time.
"But the rest of your wardrobe is red," Simone said in confusion. "Isn't a little variety a good thing?"
"Probably," Santana joked lightly. "But I want it dyed anyway."
"Okay," Simone said uncertainly.
She walked over to a cabinet and withdrew a bottle of red hair dye. While she did, Santana tracked Markus, who had his jerry curl cut much shorter, walk out of the salon. Santana sent a wink after him.
He'd have to try again with Markus later.
Santana forced himself to sit still while Simone applied the dye to his hair. It was wet and strange at first, but gradually, as it dried, it felt more normal. More than that though, it felt right.
He looked at his newly died hair. It was perfect. Santana was good and ready for the Games now.
"Hell yeah," Santana whispered to himself.
Tabby Gold District 1: 18F
Day Before The Reaping
Her arrow buried itself in the target just to the right of the bullseye. It was a good shot, especially from the distance she stood at.
Tabby stood about thirty yards from the target, a sizeable distance with a bow and arrow. In her mind, she was easily the best tribute at the academy this year. She was an expert with the bow, and while she wasn't particularly great with other weapons, it didn't matter. Tabby was spectacular with the bow.
Plus, there were her other traits, being her beauty and natural intelligence. People said she was arrogant and cocky, but Tabby knew she was just better than everyone else. Her parents knew it too and used much of their vast wealth to reward Tabby for her greatness.
The other trainees despised her for her nature, but that was their loss. If they were smart, they would side with her, not against her.
Yet, there was something bothering Tabby as she fired another arrow, which landed slightly further from the center of the target. She hadn't been chosen as the volunteer for District 1, and she couldn't figure out why.
For some reason or other, the trainers selected Kennedy Waterford. Kennedy was talented to be sure. She was excellent in nearly all areas of combat, and she was ranked well above Tabby on the academy list, a ranking of each trainee according to gender. Ranking each tribute made the decision relatively easy as to which tribute to select.
Tabby despised both the academy and Kennedy for the drastic oversight. That led her to her decision, supported by her parents.
She would volunteer before Kennedy had a chance. Tabby would make herself the District 1 volunteer. That was the thing with the volunteer system. It was based on honor. If you broke the code, there were no rules that expressly punished you for breaking them.
Tabby could volunteer, and the trainers and mentors would have no choice other than to smile and nod along with her decision. They wouldn't want to look bad on Capitol TV.
Tabby sighed as a third arrow nailed the target just to the left of the bullseye. She was thinking too hard. Normally, that wasn't a problem Tabby had. She was more of a worldly person than an introspective one.
"Mind if I join you?" A young girl asked.
She was probably around thirteen or so with bright blonde hair and pale skin.
"Yeah sure," Tabby replied.
She watched as the young girl took up a bow of her own. It was a much shorter weapon with a much lighter draw than Tabby's bow. The girl brought the target closer to her weapon to bring it into a hittable range.
Seemingly without conscious thought, the girl brought the bow up and fired. The shot speared into the edge of the bullseye ring. Tabby raised her eyebrows in surprise. The girl seemed to have an uncanny ability in firing arrows on target.
Unwilling to let the young girl get the better of her, Tabby lined up her own shot. It was further, but Tabby was confident that she would make a better shot.
She knocked an arrow and fired, but her shot landed just outside the bullseye ring. Her shot was worse.
"You should probably try not to touch the drawstring," The girl advised as she took another shot.
She hit the bullseye.
"You do know my target was further, right?" Tabby asked.
"Your technique's still wrong," The girl responded.
Tabby rounded on the girl with a harsh look in her eyes. She couldn't believe the insolence of this kid.
"I have been training here at least as long as you've been alive," Tabby said scornfully.
"And you still haven't learned to shoot a bow correctly," The girl commented.
"What?" Tabby hissed.
She stalked towards the pale skinned girl, glowering down at her. Tabby was pretty tall for a woman, standing at five foot seven inches. It could make her look intimidating to the younger tributes. Though, the blonde girl stared up at her defiantly as if she didn't have an ounce of fear in her bones.
"You obviously can't shoot very well," The blonde said. "I heard that Kennedy beat you in a contest with every weapon, even the bow."
"Do you know who I am?" Tabby asked. "Do you know what my family can do to you?"
"I don't really care," The girl said.
"I am the daughter of Mars and Nieve Gold," Tabby said lowly.
"So?" The girl asked.
Tabby scoffed and shook her head. This girl didn't understand it at all.
"You know nothing," Tabby said. "You have no influence. I could get you kicked out right now if I wanted to."
"Fine," The girl huffed, then walked off.
Tabby thought for a brief moment about running her down and bringing her in front of the board of directors, but in the end decided not to. It just wasn't worth it. That girl would realize her place one day.
Mila Arkwright District 8: 13F
Day Before The Reaping
"Kenny," Her grandfather called. "Get me that herb."
"You mean the devil's lettuce right dad?" Kenny asked jokingly while he went to the cabinet to grab the herbs her grandfather wanted.
Mila glanced around the apothecary. There was the usual afternoon bustle. People were just getting out of work, making this primetime for business. She wasn't terribly interested in the business side of operations. That was her uncle Adam's primary area of expertise.
Mila used the granite bowl to grind up the herbs she held. Her job in the apothecary was generally simple. She was still learning to accomplish the many tasks she would eventually be required to do when she took over the business. She would need to find someone to run the business.
"Just get me the herb Kenny," Her grandfather said exasperatedly.
Kenny chuckled and sent a smirk Mila's way as he passed. Uncle Kenny had a zest for life that Mila just didn't have. She was too pessimistic, too, 'glass half empty'. In each situation she saw the bad and not the good. That was why she was here in the apothecary.
Mila considered it her life's mission to help the people of the world. People lived in constant suffering and so little was being done about it. No one helped the least fortunate among them, so Mila did her best to alleviate their suffering as much as possible.
She was certainly unconcerned about performing euthanasia for patients. In her free time, she would even make small amounts of poisons, place them in vials, and pass them around on the streets. Mila made intentionally unharmful poisons designed to make suffering as minimal as possible during death.
Her relationship with death was complicated. Mila was a regular acquaintance of death, sending him new patrons relatively often. Her life began with death.
Mila's mother gave birth to her in a burning building. Her father fearlessly tossed her newborn body down from the open window into the waiting arms of his younger brother Kenny, but both father and mother were killed in the fire, unable to escape in time.
Thus, she had been raised in her grandfather's home, a small space at the back of the apothecary. Grandpa Nathan was a kind man. He told her stories of her parents and explained the ways of the world to her, while leaving her alone to make judgements for herself.
Mila quickly came to the conclusion that life was essentially meaningless. There was nothing but pain and suffering on this godforsaken planet. Unfortunately for her, she had a natural inclination to help people. So, she stuck around, willing to help others deal with the misery that was life.
Kenny returned from the storage closet with a small bag of ground up marijuana, perfect for pain relief. He ruffled her dark curly hair as he passed by.
Mila just shook her head and rolled her eyes. Uncle Kenny was so delusional.
She heard Grandpa Nathan speaking to the customers up front. Occasionally, he would be required to perform a more serious operation than prescribing drugs. Then, he would need to call in Uncle Ben for help.
Her Uncle Ben was a medically trained professional. With his bald head and neatly trimmed goatee, he looked every bit the serious surgeon. Only, there was a reason Uncle Ben performed surgeries occasionally.
From what Mila was aware, the Capitol heavily controlled the medicinal industry. All doctors were controlled by the Capitol. They couldn't take patients unless they were allowed. They were only allowed to take a certain number of patients. Supposedly, that was because the Capitol wanted each doctor to be treated fairly, but Mila wasn't sure about that.
Anyway, Uncle Ben was not in today, meaning that if something went wrong, Grandpa Nathan would have to perform the surgery. In that scenario, Uncle Silker would take over running the shop.
Finished with her work grinding up the herbs, Mila began to bag up the few piles she had. She was careful and meticulous, making sure none of the herbs spilled onto the ground. With that finished, she sorted through the storage closet, finding the correct spot for the freshly ground herbs to go.
She stopped for a moment, taking in the scents of the herbs around her. There was something wonderful about the smell. Mila supposed there were some goods in life, even if the vast majority of it was suffering and evil.
"Mila," Grandpa Nathan called from the front.
"Yes," Mila returned, walking towards the front desk.
"Can you get these herbs ground up for me?" He asked. "I need these three in liquid form. Dissolve them in water alright?"
"I can do that," Mila returned.
"Thanks," Grandpa Nathan said.
Mila took the list from her grandfather and set to work again. It was back to fulfilling her purpose of alleviating suffering. Even if she wasn't directly alleviating suffering for the moment, she was still contributing to her cause.
Scott Winston District 8: 16M
Reaping Day
Scott hated that he had to wake early. Reaping day was his least favorite day in existence, not because kids were sent off to their deaths, but because he was forced to do things he didn't want to do. He greatly disliked being ordered around.
Scott took up a pair of jeans and a white polo. He slipped on the shirt and pants. Despite what his parents would tell him to do, Scott was unwilling to wear anything more than business casual.
"Scott hurry up!" His mother shouted from downstairs.
"I'm coming mom," He grumbled in return.
"You'd better get your ass down here son," His father threatened. "We're going to be late."
Scott huffed as he slipped on the shirt and jeans. He looked at himself briefly in the mirror. His brown hair wasn't combed perfectly, but that was okay. It could be vastly worse.
"Scott!" His father shouted.
"Coming," Scott replied.
He hurried downstairs, not wanting to draw his father's anger. His father was a good man, but he had a temper. Scott did not want to feel that wrath upon him.
"Ready?" His mother questioned.
"Yeah," Scott said.
"About time," His father grumbled. "We're running late."
Scott followed his parents out the door, taking in the generally nice environment around him. His parents had a special business permit granted by the Capitol, allowing them to actually own a business and not have to work in one of the District run labor industries.
Thus, thanks to Capitol permission, they were fairly wealthy. Scott had a good life. He went to school and experienced pleasure and happiness occasionally. He knew some people didn't have those things, but that was just life.
They managed to scramble their way to the reaping. Scott approached the peacekeepers taking blood from each kid entering the small sectioned off area.
"'Sup bonehead," Scott greeted the man taking his blood.
He called all peacekeepers boneheads. It was simpler and more descriptive, as all peacekeepers were boneheads. Even his older sister who held a job in District 4, was a bonehead.
"Get a move on," The bonehead ordered almost uncaringly.
Scott flipped off the bonehead as he slowly walked towards the sixteen-year-old section. The bonehead looked genuinely angry at Scott for his actions. He thought the bonehead would chase him down for a moment, but the man never came after him.
That was fortunate. Scott didn't want to get beaten particularly.
As he approached the other sixteen-year-olds, they all stared at him. Many of them recognized him from school. He recognized some of them too, though he couldn't remember any of their actual names.
He could name them based on their physical appearances. He had nicknames for all of them, yet they all hated those nicknames. Most kids found that sort of thing rude or unkind. Too bad for them.
Scott slid into the row next to a few of his classmates. They all shuffled aside, allowing him some space, probably because they didn't want to be anywhere near him. On his left stood beanpole, a tall skinny boy with a mop of blonde hair on his head. On his right was pimples, a shorter boy with serious acne.
"What's goin' on beanpole?" Scott greeted casually.
Beanpole just rolled his eyes. He was one of the few people who Scott just couldn't get to. Beanpole didn't care what anyone said about him at all.
"Pimples," Scott turned to the other boy with a slight nod.
"Leave me alone," Pimples whined pathetically.
Scott scoffed at the weakness in the boy's voice.
"Wah, wah, wah," He rubbed his hands under his eyes, feigning crying.
"Shut up," Pimples said still sounding weak as could be.
Luckily for Pimples, Scott's girlfriend, Jessica showed up at that moment, drawing his attention away from the shorter boy.
"Hey babe," Scott greeted.
He knew her name, but just like with everyone else, he refused to call his girlfriend by her real name. Jessica, unlike everyone else, found that endearing. Scott really appreciated her for that. He wasn't sure if he loved her, but he definitely appreciated her for it.
"Hey Scott," She greeted with a smile.
She kissed him on the cheek and passed to the sixteen-year-old girl's section. Jessica was really pretty, probably the prettiest person Scott had ever seen. That's why he was dating her. They didn't agree on that much, probably because Scott didn't really have strong feelings about many issues.
It was only a few more minutes before the District 8 escort showed up on stage in front of them. She looked absolutely ridiculous. Her hair was bright pink, and her skin was a brass color. Her neck was so long that her head appeared as though it would tip over suddenly.
Scott decided to call her Lollipop.
"Well, hello all you wonderful people!" Lollipop said. "It is time again to return to that time honored tradition of sending our brave young people to fight in the Hunger Games."
Scott tuned Lollipop out at that point. She had nothing to say that was of any interest to him. These Capitolians were so stuck up and moronic. They didn't even realize how stupid they looked. They all looked fake.
A quick video presentation then played, explaining the history of Panem. Scott didn't pay attention at all. He didn't care for history. Scott found it to be irrelevant. The only thing that mattered was the here and now.
"Well wasn't that fun?" Lollipop asked too cheerfully. "Should we get started?"
Lollipop stood expectantly, as if she was waiting for the crowd to answer her question.
"Fuck you!" Someone shouted from the eighteen-year-old boy's section.
The Boneheads quickly swarmed to the spot and began beating on the people there, searching for the culprit. Scott was actually kind of jealous he hadn't thought to do that. Only kind of though, he didn't want to get beaten.
"Well, sounds like we're all raring to go!" Lollipop said, trying to make the best of a bad situation. "We'll start with the girls."
She walked towards the glass bowl and withdrew a single slip of paper.
"Mila Arkwright," Lollipop read out clearly.
The crowd shifted, looking for the girl whose name Lollipop called. A girl appeared from the thirteen-year-old section. She was dark skinned with long curly hair. Her face was totally blank, showing no emotion. It was sort of freaky watching her walk up on stage. She didn't seem to care about anything.
Scott decided to call her Corpse, because she looked like a dead girl walking.
"Now for the boys," Lollipop said.
She drew a slip of paper from the other glass bowl with a flourish.
"Scott Winston," She read out.
Scott stood stock still in shock for a moment. He heard his mother crying behind him. Then, Scott remembered who he was and how he was supposed to act.
Scott shrugged then put on an easy smirk and walked towards the stage. No one around him looked particularly sad to see him go. Well screw all of them.
He ascended the stairs and took his place next to Corpse and Lollipop.
Scott eyed Corpse's hand, already having forgotten her name. He wondered if they should shake hands, but in the end decided not to. If they were supposed to, then he would rather get in trouble for it later than make a fool of himself on TV now.
"District 8, I give you your tributes!" Lollipop called triumphantly. "Mila Arkwright and Scott Winston!"
Tabby Gold District 1: 18F
Reaping Day
"Do us proud," Her mother, Nieve Gold whispered as they hugged.
Her father, Mars Gold, sent her a nod of encouragement. They both approved of her decision to volunteer over Kennedy Waterford. They all thought Kennedy was a second-class citizen, an irrelevant footnote in history.
Not the Golds though. The Golds were important. The Golds were powerful and influential. They knew what was right and what was wrong.
Kennedy Waterford's family was greedy. The Waterfords were the richest family in the District, probably the richest family outside of the Capitol. They ran a large empire of designer clothes, only of the most expensive varieties. Yet they did nothing to help the poor and downtrodden. All they cared about was making money.
The Golds knew better. They knew the value of social responsibility. They knew the importance of rubbing elbows with the politicians and Capitolians. The Golds were heroes and helpers of the poor, providing assistance to achieve things they never could themselves.
The Waterfords didn't care about any of that. They didn't teach their three children how to behave in a socially acceptable way. They told them the power of reason, that they should never compromise their values or sacrifice for anyone. All the Waterfords wanted to do was make money.
Tabby led her little brother, Harold, off towards the chained in area before the stage.
"Just remember," Tabby whispered in his ear before they split apart. "You'll never be as good as me. You'll never have this opportunity."
Harold grumbled and shoved her off before taking his place amongst the fourteen-year-old boys. Tabby scoffed. Harold was just like all the other trainees. He had no special talent and wouldn't amount to anything. The impudent fool was even friends with Gabriel Waterford, the youngest Waterford kid.
Tabby walked confidently towards the eighteen-year-old girls, ready to take on the world. She was ready to show them just who the Golds were.
The many victors of District 1 appeared on stage first. There were nine of them, five women and four men. Following them was the mayor of District 1, then the escort, Io Venus.
Io was a man with soft tan skin and dark curly hair. His voice was like butter and his vocabulary was extravagant. Now that was a man to admire.
"Welcome my friends," Io greeted in a deep voice. "I have the great pleasure of, once again, acting as your escort."
Many of the women in the crowd screamed, sending all sorts of lewd comments in his direction. Io just smiled widely, showing off a row of beautiful white teeth.
"We all know the past is prologue," Io continued. "The events that occurred yesterday are the ones that shape today. So, before the reapings officially commence, we review that information of the past which holds such gravitas even now. Please give a warm welcome to President Cornell Viktor here to give that traditional address which is of such import to Panem."
Everyone clapped politely as the President appeared on a large screen to the left of the stage. It was a prerecorded video, but it would be extremely rude to not clap for the appearance of the President even if he wasn't actually here. Tabby doubted that President Viktor would even care if anyone clapped for him. That just seemed wrong to Tabby. The people should appreciate their leaders.
The President's address was short. He wasn't a big fan of pomp and circumstance. Tabby was told by her parents that the President's address used to be much longer back before Viktor was elected.
"Many thanks to President Viktor for sharing that message," Io said. "Now, the time has come to see which girl and boy will represent this District in the Hunger Games. Last year we saw our female tribute first, why not the male first this year?"
The way he said male and female made it sound almost like he saw them as lesser beings. Tabby couldn't be sure whether Io was talking to everyone, or just those worthy of being looked down upon.
Io slowly and confidently withdrew a slip from the bowl.
"Tate Michele," Io said.
Not a second later a voice called out from the crowd.
"I volunteer," It said.
Tabby knew who it was. Everyone in the academy and many people outside of the academy knew who it was too.
The cameras panned toward the eighteen-year-old dressed in blood red clothing. He was tall and muscular, displaying an easy smirk borne of complete confidence in oneself. To match the red aesthetic of his clothes, he'd even dyed his hair blood red.
"What's your name sir?" Io asked politely.
"Santana Perez," He answered confidently. "And these Games are mine to win."
Santana bowed theatrically.
Tabby was thankful that she would be joining Santana, and not someone who actually disliked her. Santana was a force to be reckoned with both in the arena and out of it. He would surely be the tribute to beat in the minds of the Capitolians. They just didn't know how good Tabby was yet.
"Quite confident," Io stated with a smile on his face. "You strike me as someone who will go far Santana."
"Thank you," Santana replied smoothly.
"Now for the girls," Io said.
Tabby readied herself. Now, everything depended on speed. She had to be faster than Kennedy to volunteer. Maybe she could cut ahead slightly too.
Just as Io began to pronounce the female name, Tabby made her move.
"I volunteer!" She shouted confidently.
Io, blinked awkwardly on stage, surprised that the reading of the name had been cut short, but he recovered quickly as everyone turned toward Tabby.
As they recognized she was not Kennedy, not the chosen volunteer, expressions of confusion crossed their faces. Then came the glares.
Tabby ignored the angry glances. It didn't matter that everyone in this District was morally backwards. She put on a bright confident smile and swaggered her way up on stage.
Tabby walked straight towards Io and pulled his microphone close to her mouth, bypassing the formalities of introduction.
"My name's Tabby Gold," She spoke clearly. "And I am going to win the Hunger Games."
Mila Arkwright District 8: 13F
Goodbye Lounge
"I'm going to miss you so much," Aunt Frida bawled as she held Mila in a tight hug.
Aunt Frida was always overly emotional, something that Mila didn't understand. Seeing as everyone else in the room was doing their best to hold back tears though, Mila actually didn't think Aunt Frida was being overly emotional, probably for the first time in her life.
"Stay strong Mila," Uncle Ben grabbed hold of her in a strong hug while Aunt Frida let go.
"Thanks Uncle Ben," Mila replied.
"You can do this okay?" He encouraged.
Uncle Ben, out of all Mila's many family members, was the one most confident in her ability to win. The more she thought about it though, Mila was confident that this could be a chance to turn an unfortunate circumstance into something great. She thought of all the suffering individuals she could help in the Games. Ending life in the arena would be a mercy.
Uncle Kenny hugged her next. For once in his life, Uncle Kenny didn't have anything to say. He appeared starstruck by the event of her reaping. It was sad to see Uncle Kenny's jovial nature gone, but maybe it was for the best. Maybe he'd learn to be more realistic.
"Come here Mila," Grandpa Nathan said raspily.
He rubbed a hand over his dark-skinned bald head, trying not to cry. She noticed in the moment just how much Uncle Ben resembled Grandpa Nathan.
Mila embraced her grandfather, feeling his hands squeeze her comfortingly.
"I love you so much," Grandpa Nathan said.
"I love you too Grandpa," Mila returned, though she was much further from tears than her grandfather.
They broke apart, leaving Mila to survey her family. Everyone looked terribly sad, especially Aunt Frida.
"I'm going to come home," Mila said, feeling that she should say something to reassure them. "Think of all the people I'll be able to help if I win the Games."
"That's a good attitude," Uncle Ben praised. "Keep your head up high Mila. They'll try to beat you down, break you. Don't let them."
Mila nodded, thankful for Uncle Ben's control of his emotions. She needed to hear a logical piece of advice.
"Oh Mila," Grandpa Nathan spoke up after a moment's silence. "You should take this."
Grandpa Nathan held out a single gold coin to her. Mila took it curiously, wondering what this was for.
"As your token," Grandpa Nathan explained. "It was the first money I ever earned at the apothecary. I never had the heart to spend it. It always reminded me of where I came from. I want it to remind you of where you came from."
As Mila stared down at the coin, she felt the first tendrils of emotion pushing their way into her soul. Grandpa Nathan was the greatest man living. He was so kind, so gentle. This world didn't deserve someone like him.
"Thanks Grandpa," Mila reached out and hugged her grandfather again.
Grandpa Nathan was surprised at first. Mila never hugged anyone of her own accord. Grandpa Nathan exhaled nervously as he hugged his granddaughter, but Mila just hugged him harder. She didn't want him to feel bad for her.
She didn't want to say it to her family. Mila wasn't sure they would understand the logic completely, but it was sensible. Going to the Games, she would have plenty of opportunities to alleviate the suffering of any allies she might gain. She would make the experience easier for them. Then, she would be able to help her enemies pass on into the gentle embrace of death. If she won, she would be able to help even more people using her clout and winnings. If she lost, Mila would finally be able to rest comfortably in the arms of death.
Santana Perez District 1: 18M
Goodbye Lounge
Kennedy Waterford sat next to Santana on one of the many couches in the lounge. It seemed almost comical that the District provided tributes with such comfort just before they left, likely heading to their ultimate deaths. Well, likely in most cases. Santana was an exception.
Santana was feeling completely comfortable on the stage during the reapings. Everything was going just as it was supposed to. He only had to wait for Kennedy to join him, then, together, they would take out the competition.
His relationship with Kennedy was complicated. Santana first met her at the academy during training. She was incredibly attractive and was seriously talented with a sword. Santana had promptly struck up a conversation with her. He explained to her just how capable he thought she was, then, without knowing why, he told her she'd look better with her head split open.
Kennedy had looked at him like he was crazy, but Santana quickly managed to cover his tracks. Damn necrophilia, always made it difficult to flirt with people when you think they're hotter dead than alive.
Since then, Santana had taken Kennedy out a few times. They'd slept together too, and it was great sex. Kennedy had a great body, plus she was really flexible. That made trying out different positions quite fun.
"So now what?" Santana asked, thinking of the Games.
Their strategy was toast, so now he had to come up with something completely different.
Kennedy said nothing. She was obviously crushed by the events of the reaping. This was Kennedy's one shot at the Games. At eighteen, she wouldn't be able to enter next year. Then, that bitch Tabby Gold had taken her shot away.
Santana was aware of Tabby, but only because of her family name and consequent attitude. She thought she was god's greatest gift to the planet. Tabby was convinced that she was the best trainee in the academy. Santana knew better. Tabby wasn't even in the top ten. She was dead meat considering that Districts 2 and 4 would certainly have top tier tributes just as they always did.
"Now you have to win for both of us," Kennedy said resignedly.
"Don't worry," Santana smirked lightly. "I'll avenge you."
Kennedy chuckled lightly, brushed a strand of black hair behind her ear.
"But it doesn't mean anything," Kennedy groaned. "I just feel so purposeless. I trained my whole life for this."
"Hey," Santana said, trying to sound comforting. "It'll be okay. Someone as smart and tough as you will find something else to do."
He didn't struggle finding the words to say. That was never Santana's problem. He knew what to say and how to say it, but he didn't know how to mean it. Genuity wasn't his strong suit, not that he minded though. It just made it easier to get what he wanted without feeling guilty.
"That's not the point Santana," Kennedy said falling back in her seat.
"Then what is?" Santana asked with a concerned tone.
Kennedy sat in silence for a moment, then sighed heavily, slapping her arms against the couch.
"I don't know," She responded resignedly.
Then, like a bull in a china shop, Santana's older sister Ambrette burst through the door.
"Santana, now you've gone and done it!" Ambrette shouted angrily. "You're going to go get yourself killed and leave the business for me to handle? Not that that's any different from normal anyway."
Santana was slightly shocked for a moment that Ambrette had even shown up. The two weren't exactly on good terms and hadn't been for years.
"Could you give me a minute to work this out?" Santana requested Kennedy. "We can talk later."
Kennedy nodded and left quietly. It almost hurt Santana to see the usually powerful and assertive Kennedy so broken. It almost hurt him.
"So what's this about then?" Santana asked nonchalantly.
"You know damn well what this is about," Ambrette hissed, stalking towards the still sitting Santana. "You've never had an interest in the family business. I hoped you'd grow out of this self-obsessed phase and take up the business, but it doesn't look like it. You're going to get killed before that can happen."
"Why do you care?" Santana questioned. "It's my life. I can do whatever I want."
"You are so fucking irresponsible it makes me sick," Ambrette said. "You know mom and dad wanted you to help me with the jewelry business."
"They always wanted me to," Santana shrugged. "Doesn't mean I have to. I'm free to do what I like. I don't have to do whatever mom and dad told me to."
"Santana," Ambrette addressed him like one would address a six-year-old. "The world doesn't revolve around you. It isn't all about you."
"Obviously," Santana returned condescendingly. "But my life is all about me, no matter what you say, or what mom and dad said."
"Your life," Ambrette said to herself.
She laughed out loud. It was a mirthless, uncaring sound. Santana didn't particularly care what Ambrette thought, or anyone else for that matter. He was confident enough in himself that their comments of derision meant nothing.
"Yeah," Santana said. "My life."
"There are some things that just aren't okay Santana," Ambrette spoke softly but threateningly. "Your weird blood obsession, definitely not okay. Necrophilia, double not okay. Shirking your responsibilities and leaving them for someone else, triple not okay."
"Tell me, is anything you say supposed to upset me?" Santana questioned with a smirk. "Because if it is, it's not working."
"You know what?" Ambrette asked. "Fine. You can do whatever. Go off into the Games and get killed. I don't care."
"See," Santana said slowly. "Now you get it."
Ambrette growled to herself, then stalked for the door. She stopped just before leaving the room and turned back to face Santana.
"I hope you get what you deserve," Ambrette said with cold finality.
Her tone contained complete apathy. There wasn't even a single hint of warmth or humanity. It was robotic, like a computer reading out a line of code.
"Everyone always does," Santana whispered in response though Ambrette was long gone.
Whew, there's the first reaping chapter. Introducing Santana Perez D1M by Paradigm of Writing, Tabby Gold D1F by wiifan2002, Mila Arkwright D8F by Very New To This, and Scott Winston D8M by wiifan2002.
So, who was your favorite of these tributes? Who do you think will make it the furthest? Who will die first? Let me know what you think.
This is the first of six reaping chapters. I will introduce four tributes and two Districts per reaping chapter, giving ample time to introduce some backstory of each one. I had so much fun writing this chapter. Your characters are really great.
Once again though, the cast isn't quite filled. We still need six more tributes guys, so keep submitting!
Here's the submission form for anyone interested.
Name:
Age:
Gender:
Sexuality:
District:
Face Claim:
Appearance (Any edits to the face claim?):
Personality:
MBTI:
History:
Strengths (No more than 4):
Weaknesses (No less than 3):
Weapon of choice:
Other weapons:
Family (Include significant others):
Friends:
Special Skills (These are things that they do well that might make them stand out from the other tributes):
Alliances?:
Open to Romance in Games?:
Volunteer/Chosen?:
Reaction to reaping:
Token:
Chariot Outfit (I will probably use these since I'm shit at outfits):
Interview Outfit:
Interview Angle (i.e. aloof, flirty, dangerous, mysterious, etc.) :
Reaping Outfit:
Training room strategy:
What skill did they show to gamemakers?:
Score estimate(10-8 for careers. 7-8 for strong outer districts. 4-6 for average outer districts. 4 for rare cases.):
Interview Quote:
Victor material?:
Creative Liberties? (Is it okay if I change some things about your tribute to fit him or her into the story better? Things like district, age, weapons. Nothing major like personality.):
Other (Anything else you want to add?):
Thanks for reading guys.