Good morning, or evening-depending on where you are in the world. This will be the last Capitol chapter for a while, I've attempted to do some 'world building' since these are the First Hunger Games :)
I'm also happy to announce that all slots are either filled or reserved- the Tribute List will be posted at the end of the chapter BUT to those with reservations, please get them to me as soon as possible as I need all the Tributes to finalise some of my plans going forward: If I don't hear from you, even if it is just to say 'working on it' within a few days I will open up the relevant slot.
Selena Crane, Assistant to the Head-Gamemaker, Capitol Citizen
One would think as a woman of science, more accurately experimental science, I would be used to 'explosions'. But nothing could prepare me for the explosion of colour that is assaulting my corneas at this current time. Couple this kaleidoscope of hues with the cacophony of sounds that are seconds away from making my ears bleed, and you would be right to assume that I'd rather be anywhere but here.
I was raised in the Capitol, I worked tirelessly alongside the greatest minds during the 'Dark Days' and witnessed things that would make those with the strongest constitutions lose their stomachs, but nothing could prepare me for what I'm facing right now. Twelve colourful imbeciles that are far too familiar with the body modification surgery office, and have a loathsome habit of speaking with an over-exaggerated intonation in a pale imitation of pre-Panem aristocracy.
Snippets of their conversation are enough to make me want to repeatedly smash my head into the nearest solid surface, and that desire is becoming more and more feverent as the seconds tick by. One would think they had more important matters to discuss than the newest boutique opening, or how 'absolutely gorge' some television personality is: I am terrified that my brain cells are fading to nothingness the longer I am forced to endue this.
"Ladies and gentlemen."
My voice lacks the timbre of command associated with my colleagues such as DeMontford or the cold sensuality of Corrine, but the almost monotonous drawl is enough to silence the sycophants momentarily. They all sit up a little straighter, preening like peacocks and basking in their self-importance. My desire to pull the concealed pistol from my snakeskin purse and decorate the stark white walls of the conference room with their blood is almost overwhelming but I take a calming breath and walking along the tables where they are congregated.
"First of all, congratulations to you all. Following an intensive screening process you twelve have been selected for a very special role in the upcoming festitvites we are calling the Hunger Games. District liasion officers, responsible for escorting those selected in the lottery to the Capitol and acting as ambassadors of our great city, the Capitol. This induction is for you to ask questions and familiarise yourselves with the roles and responsibilities of those in your esteemed positions, although the pamphlets provided should suffice in providing any further informarion you may require."
The rehearsed speech is basically spat out in my mechanical tone devoid of inflection, a 'welcoming' smile fixed to my face that I am sure looks more like a pained grimace. The moment I had deigned them 'special' they had begun tittering like a flock of over-excitable hens and giggling like immature school children. As if these 'people', for lack of a better word, could ever be considered special.
The selction process was similar to the lottery process the eligible District scum would face, twelve names picked out from the applications received: This esteemed role they play is nothing more than that of a glorified babysitter whose sole responsibility is ensuring their 'charges' are brought from the hovels they come home, and thrown into the Arena I had helped design. And still, not one of these brainless idiots have picked up the pamphlet. What makes them 'special' is an inherent ability not to follow instructions given to them plainly, or so it seems.
It baffles me, truly, that these people are so self-important that they believe they are special. If anyone in this room was special, it was myself: My colleague, Corrine Snow, and I were the true ambassador's of revolution. These 'Hunger Games' were born from conversations that began in our shared dormitory at The Academy of Scientific Operations. A means of punishing the ungrateful wretches of the Districts, where talk of rebellion was rife even then, but then the pompous asshole we are calling our 'saviour' and President decided that our weapon should truly become 'Panem et Circenses' and therefore involving these clowns.
I am not too proud to admit that DeMontford's contributions are brilliant. I recognise that his ideas of bringing forth the pageantry element of proceedings is a pragmatic way to benefit the economic and psychological stranglehold we possess over the Districts. Simply, I would appreciate these contributions a lot more if it wasn't I selected to 'debrief' these morons to ensure that the 'Circenses' runs smoothly. As if a pre-meditated gladiatorial death match would ever run smoothly.
My 'charges' for the moment has discarded the resources I'd given them and fallen back into overly loud conversation, incapable of tolerating their idiocy any longer I clear my throat. If they choose to continue fluttering around like frightened hens, then I will give them something to be fearful of.
"LISTEN!"
The mechanical tone is now gone, and my complete disinterest and scorn towards these fools is bleeding into every syllable. The effect is instantaneous, as they all freeze and silence blankets the conference room: I'm now staring into a sea of faces, some looks terrified while others are affronted by what they must assume is a blatant disregard of 'etiquette'.
"Now that we are all listening. I would like, and by that I mean I expect, you to focus- however difficult that may be- on the booklet I have given you. Do it quickly, and quietly for the Capitol's sake. And then, and only then- I will answer any questions you may have. Am I understood?"
I do not have the time or the patience to coddle these imbeciles any longer, I nod indifferently to the murmurs of agreement before taking a seat at the desk and pulling out my portable computer and focussing on something actually worthwhile. Project: MIRAGE
Drusilla Drayden, District Liaison Officer, Capitol.
I am positively fuming, how dare that woman take such a tone with me. Selena Crane, I know her. Well, I know of her but that is enough. Just because she is bosom buddies with that heinous Snow woman, she has the audacity to speak to me with such a pointed tone. She may be one of those 'Science' types with an abundance of intelligence, but it doesn't take a scientist to figure out that brutish woman has no class or respect for social decorum.
Glancing around the room, I note that my peers are perusing the 'pamphlet' that she-wolf handed out earlier. Flicking my chartreuse hair behind my shoulder and sniffing disdainfully I open the leaflet. As I read I realise that I have been allocated District One, as I should be, no one understand luxury more than Drusilla Drayden but as I read further I become a little confused.
'...following the ceremony wherein the Tributes are selected, the Tributes will be given an allocated time of three minutes in the Justice Building to say their farewells to their loved ones. After this, it is your duty, to ensure the Tributes are escorted to the train by the designated departure time (*Please see Appendix ix for departure times) While in transit to the Capitol, you will be working alongside the District Advisor. This will involve securing potential 'sponsors' for the Tributes you are working with; ensuring that the Tributes have received sufficient training in etiquette by the time the interviews are completed...'
Sponsorship? District Advisor? One is versed in the ancient languages, but I may as well be reading pig Latin. Sitting up a little straighter, which is a feat in and unto itself due to my immaculate posture, I raise my hand. Even if it is painful to do so, wanting nothing to do that will involve interacting with the raven-haired heathen. Unfortunately, said heathen appears engrossed with whatever she is doing with her computab.
"Hem, hem"
While I simper sweetly, I am more than a little irked. I am Drusilla Drayden for the sake of Panem, this little science twit should know better than to ignore someone of my impeccable breeding. Her eyes remain fixed on the computer/tablet hybrid and I can almost feel myself blush in indignation. I am spared the shame due to the recent melatonin adjustment I had undergone to paint my porcelain skin a pale lemon.
"Selena?"
Her eyes dart to me, and she sneers like a rabid animal as her amber eyes glitter with malevolence. A scathing remark is on the end of my tongue but the words dissipate like smoke in the wind as she raises her manicured hand in the universal gesture of 'shut up'. My pride almost dictates that I should rebuff her silent gesture of dominance but there's a voice in my head that tells me that Selena Crane- despite her blatant disregard for manners- is not an enemy you would like to make lightly.
"That is my name, Ms. Drayden. Although I would prefer to be addressed by my formal title: Executive Assistant to the Head Gamemaker. And that goes for all of you. Now, what is it that I can help you with?"
I could splutter in rage, this overly intelligent she-beast dare talk to me in such a condescending manner. I am simply affronted, glancing at my fellow District Liaison Officers show me that they're all cowards as their eyes remain fixed on the scriptures before them. Her complete dismissal almost stings; I am a Drayden, and as major beneficiaries of the war effort, I am entitled to respect. Especially from a snotty know-it-all like Crane: But I can play nicely like the graceful serpent in the Drayden family crest I will 'tunc mirabuntur me'. Bide my time.
"Sorry to disturb you. After the lottery and such it mentions District Advisors? Could you elaborate on what these are. And then 'securing' Sponsors. I, and I'm sure my wonderful colleagues agree, would like to know a little more about this. Only if you know of course."
As sweet as pie, I shrug innocently and look around at my colleagues who are tittering out their agreement. Shrugging innocently and widening my eyes, I repress the urge to smirk as Crane's lips almost disappear as they thin. She takes a deep breath and attempts a would be smile before shutting off her computab.
"Of course I know. I hold an executive position planning these Games- and I will answer your questions: But only once. So I suggest you all listen, and listen well if that's possible. You will each be assigned a 'partner' of sorts- a prolific member of the government or the military who will effectively mentor the Tributes: Be that strategy for when they're in the Arena, or things to focus on in the three day training period-"
"But, like, why would someone, like, a politician or soldier, want to, like, help the Tribute people like? I mean, like, and who would, like, sponsor. I don't wanna, like, waste my time schmoozing up to,like, rich folks for money. Like, just to help someone from, like, a District?"
Serena looks at the one who dared interrupt her with something akin to shock, and I share the sentiment. The blue haired buffoon may have made a valid point, but every knows that excessive use of the words 'like','huh' or 'sorry' are clearly indicators of poor breeding and a lack of intelligence. The moment of camaraderie between Crane and I passes when she smiles indulgently at the cobalt coloured oaf.
"I am glad you, eventually asked that. Mr. Templesmith. Well you are all bravely undertaking roles where you will be working in close proximity with those affiliated with, and potentially related to, the terrorists who endangered our beloved Capitol."
She almost sounds sincere, but a liar knows a liar when they see them. And I would bet my entire couture collection that Selena Crane is lying through her pearly white teeth, if she thinks we are brave then I was born in a barn. But I am curious to see what she has to say.
"You will receive a compensation of sorts, a commission based on all the sponsorships you secure. And if you conduct remains professional throughout what we are calling 'Games Season' you will receive a 'bonus'. And the Advisors are all playing to win, as if a Tribute from the District you are representing wins. Then you will be rewarded greatly, President DeMontford has assured that"
You could hear a pin drop, while most of us were content to simply pick up a pay check after 23 of the District children are dead: We're all now competing for a grand prize of our own. Excited chatter provides a soundscape as Selena packs her belongings away, a coy smile on her haughty features.
"Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favour"
Crimson, Capitol Enforcer.
The man strapped to the chair before me is a sorry sight, or would be considered by most, with his body misshapen from hastily repaired broken bones. His pale skin having adopted a waxy sheen, his lips torn from what may have once been a handsome face-nothing but a gaping hole remains. As gory as the sight is, there is something beguiling about it. His teeth, the few remaining are chipped and coated in a sparse layer of dried blood: He is a work of art. But the piece remains incomplete: His eyes, a startling blue, still radiant defiance. They still shine with the last vestiges of hope, like a lit candle.
I am an artist of sorts, a renowned artist in the most secretive sects of Capitol society. Mistress has chosen me to complete this art piece: To extinguish the fire in his eyes and make him 'spill' the secrets he clings to so dearly. It's almost erotic, the meticulous way that Mistress uses language. Every word is chosen deliberately, and the thought of making this man 'spill' is more powerful than any aphrodisiac known to man.
"Good evening Sir, I look forward to working with you."
Stepping into the fluorescent lighting the man looks taken aback. I am sure that I cut a stark figure to his previous 'acquaintances': Burly men with their corded muscles. But I am only a fifteen year old girl, petite with snowy white hair and periwinkle blue eyes. He splutters momentarily, his forehead creasing in confusion and his eyes widening in pity.
Tittering in a girlish manner, I waltz into the room. The harsh white soundproof walls, the mirrored floor. He tries to follow my movements with his eyes, but he is secured to the chair. If I listen closely enough, I can hear his heartbeat stutter and I almost groan in ecstasy: His disbelief at seeing a young girl in the 'Interrogation Pod' is warring with something more basic- his animalistic instinct to flee when cornered by a superior predator.
"Don't be scared. We will make music."
Before he can register my words I lunge forward and thrust the dagger into the soft tissue below his ribcage. The sounds that tears through the silence is inhumane, a guttural scream melding with a fearful sob. Giggling to myself I head over the table where my tools lie, tracing the serrated edge of a knife I bask in the afterglow of slicing through his skin. The first brushstroke on my newest canvas.
I can feel a thrumming in my head, a music that plays only for me: The dance of death, but I refrain from ending this man's pitiful existence too soon. Mistress would be unhappy, and I cannot have an unhappy mistress. Before I fall into the haze of lust and violence I have an objective to complete. Taking up a small dagger I turn to my canvas who is attempting to breathe through the pain. A pointless endeavour.
"Now, all I need to know is everything you know about the Rebels. Do not presume to lie, I will know- and that little love tap I gave you is nothing compared to what I would do to someone who lied to me. We know the rebellion is still alive, in hiding and weakened but we know it's still there- so please, and I am asking ever so nicely, who is still involved in the futile effort?"
He stares into my eyes. Seeing hate, anxiety and still pity; He opens his mouth, or what remains of it, and spits on the floor. The yellow mucus is tinged with droplets of blood and I almost growl: The secretion being contaminated with blood means that this soul is not long for this world. Then I must work quickly, and so we dance.
I do not know how long I was immersed into the euphoric haze of making art, but my once pristine white dress is now crimson. The blood coating my hands is drying, the colour of rust, and I trace the pattern with my tongue savouring the coppery taste. My art work is complete, his intestines ripped free from their internal prison and used to choke the subject. Urine and faeces cover the floor, framing my masterpiece. Eyes gouged from their sockets, nails ripped from their beds: This is my finest work.
Mistress will be proud. I made him 'spill', I made him spill everywhere. I made him spill to the point that it would be hard to categorise this fresh corpse as even human. But that isn't what will make Mistress the proudest. Mistress will be proud as, before he 'succumbed' to my artistic talents, the subject gave me a name.
Andrea Pervelle, Freelance Journalist, Capitol.
Having been raised in the lap of luxury, it is pretty difficult for something to impress me with its sheer opulence. But that is not the case when it comes to Château de Rêves: The most exclusive restaurant in the Capitol which radiates a sense of luxury that even Capitolites, born and raised, would struggle to imagine.
From the crystal chandeliers which I would bet are made of the finest diamonds mined from District One, to the oak panelled walls and priceless pieces of art displayed sporadically throughout the establishment. It's not every day you are whisked to the finest venue in the Capitol, and more surprisingly at the behest of the President themselves.
Savouring the grapefruit undertones in the chardonnay, and how it contrasts with the sweetness of the maraschino cheery parfait. I could definitely get used to this, and the delicate cadences of Beethoven's 'Moonlight Sonata', provides the perfect ambience- if only my 'date' was running on time. Glancing at my white gold watch, I note that the President is closing in on being five minutes late.
Of course, as a President you are allowed to be late- I dare not imagine what menial tasks the man is bedevilled with on a daily basis- but another glass of white wine is calling my name, and it would be considered uncouth to entertain the President of Panem while slurring my words. These are the true woes of the modern woman.
It's only a few minutes later, once I have finished the last of my mouth watering dessert when the man of the hour strolls into the restaurant with little to no fanfare. He is accompanied by only two Sergeants of the Peace, wearing the scarlet jumpsuits that set them apart from their delegates in the armed forces who don white uniforms. But my eyes are drawn to President Holden DeMontford.
He deserves a more than appreciative glance, with his navy suit tailored to perfection: Highlighting his trim waist and broad shoulders. I have never been one to be fooled by a pretty face but the President is a sight to behold, his classically handsome features unmarred by the elaborate cosmetic enhancements that are sweeping the Capitol. Green eyes, olive toned skin and angular features offset by his chiselled jaw. A handsome man, but one doesn't become the President of a Nation like Panem by being blessed in the genetics department.
"Ah Miss Pervelle. I apologise for my tardiness, I have had an incredibly strenuous morning. How are you?"
He gestures to waiter to bring us a drink as his smooth baritone caresses every word. I would roll my eyes, but I am not foolish enough to antagonise someone in his position: It is evident that he is charming as well as handsome, a lethal combination when it comes to politics. I arrange my features into a mask of polite curiosity, being more than familiar with men who use honeyed words to further their agenda.
"I am wonderful sir, although you need not apologise. I understand that a man in your position has many responsibilities- some, inevitably, that you need to get back to. So let us not waste time with meaningless pleasantries, let us drink our wine and you can tell me what you want?"
I realise that I may sound presumptuous, but that second glass of wine has loosened my tongue more than I had anticipated. But the President smiles broadly, his brow furrows for only a second before he chuckles and leans back into his chair: Relaxed posture, and deliberately showing me his palms. I was right, the man wants something.
"I come with a proposition. A proposition that I believe you are uniquely qualified for."
The enigmatic statement catches my attention, smiling pleasantly I play with the stem of my crystal glass. Watching him as he places his hands together in his lap, but he is watching me too.
"So this is a business meeting. If that's the case, what is this proposition? And please enlighten me as to how I am uniquely qualified."
I am a journalist of sorts, often interviewing famed Capitolites for CEN: But I could list another five journalists who are more experienced and have a much larger fan base than my own. My own fiancée, Augustus Flickerman, has recently hosted the CAFTA's to critical acclaim.
"I'll keep it brief. You've heard of the Hunger Games, and I was hoping you'd be the Mistress of Ceremonies. We considered Gus, but you have that special something I'm looking for: You are a woman of many talents. Be it your degree in Psychology, your published papers on 'Capitol and District Relations'. You're a relative newcomer to the entertainment scene, and these Games I tell you- they're a tradition in the making, and we want them hosted by someone 'fresh'"
He was laying on the charm a little thick, but he had researched me fully. It was alluring really, I was a newcomer to the entertainment scene and these Hunger Games would catapult me into a level of stardom I'd only dreamed about. I couldn't say that for certain, but something just told me that accepting this opportunity would change my life forever. I took another of my wine before smiling.
"I'm interested. So tell me more of what this will entail?"
President DeMontford smiles so brightly, his teeth glittering in the ambient lighting. He almost looks relieved, and that does wonders for my ego. As he opens his mouth to tell me more about becoming the Mistress of Ceremonies, I signal the waiter to bring a bottle. I feel like I deserve it after all, it's not everyday you're personally plucked from obscurity by the President and handed an opportunity that will change your life.
NEXT CHAPTER WE MEET 3 OF OUR WONDERFUL TRIBUTES:
Cicero Bastille, Cali Topaz and Cassian Costa- I am so excited for you to meet the wonderful Tributes people have submitted :)
So, tell me what you think in regards to how I'm setting up the Games- Mentors/Escorts/MC etc? Any particular POV you enjoyed?
Feel free to make up an Escort or a Mentor and send them to me- Mentors can be military figures or politicians. Just a name, brief description, tiny bit of personality (can just be a few words) and a bit of backstory :) Saves me having make them all up :D
What did we think of Crimson? Who is her Mistress? And what was the name she discovered?
The Tributes: Lest We Forget
District One - Luxury Items
Male: Dorian Wilde, 16 - CluelessWriter23
Female: Cali Topaz, 17- crossroadsphan
District Two - Masonry
Male: Cicero Bastille, 18- david12341
Female: Ophelia Rimbaud, 16 - vandenbergs
District Three - Scientific Research/Development
Male: Open to submissions
Female: Giga Sloane, 13- CluelessWriter23
District Four - Fishing/Shipping
Male: Cassian Costa, 18- vandenburgs
Female: Ona Salinger, 17- petrificustotaloos
District Five - Power/Engineering
Male: Watt Helyre, 15- DragonoftheStars1429
Female: Ida Marie Potter, 15- A Proud Bibliophile
District Six- Medicine
Male: Kieran Rigel,17- Kay of Arda
Female: Virginia 'Jyn' Barden, 18 - david12341
District Seven - Lumber
Male: Quentin Somerset, 13 -petrificustotaloos
Female: Shirley Bertram,14 - vandenbergs
District Eight - Textiles
Male: Ringo Marconi, 14- 20
Female: Cyrene Alithor, 18- DragonoftheStars1429
District Nine - Grain/Milling
Male: Buddy Vandijk, 17- Zacksteel
Female: Charity Greene,16- foxfox12
District Ten - Livestock
Male: Rowan Mason, 18- YJ Harper Row
Female: Anna Broyles, 15- JStar14H
District Eleven - Agriculture
Male: Open to submissions
Female: Reserved- DragonoftheStars1429
District Twelve - Coal Mining
Male: Aerion Fyre, 18 - Kay of Arda
Female: Taliyah Naph, 15 - david12341