Odysseus Pennyworth, 18, Capital citizen, Reaping Day
Disclaimer: Even though Odysseus's first POV is in third person, I have officially switched to first person writing. I know I could change the chapter accordingly if I wanted to, but honestly, I'm just too lazy. Enjoy!
"And now, let's head over to our good friends up in District One."
The screen diverts from the plastic Catonius Flickerman to the fancy white marble District One Square, with its pretty little merchant shops and grape vines hanging from the pillars of the imposing Justice Building. I can feel my hands trembling in my pockets. This is make or break. If this doesn't work out my family will be in ruins.
"Odysseus!" Father whisper-yells at me, frantic. "Odysseus!?"
"Huh?" I respond nervously. The escort has already started reciting one of her poems. Her fake angel wings are blinding in the early-morning light.
"What do you mean they know about the money situation?!"
"I mean they know!" I whisper back. "I heard two ladies chatting and they both said they heard rumors about it."
"You…" Father seizes my shoulders and throttles me, as if he blames me for all of this.
"Don't kill the messenger!"
"I can kill the goddamn messenger if I want to!" Father is getting increasingly loud. We're beginning to attract attention from the potential betters, losing their fixated, mindless gaze on the screens above spanning the whole arena.
"Quiet, quiet! This can wait!"
"No, son, it cannot wait!"
I blink and look again. Tears seem to be trickling out of Father's eye. It's hard to see with how tall he is. And before I know it, a certain wetness is bombarding the back of my eyes, too. If this all goes awry, if people know, we will be ruined. After the scandal of last year, the decrease in funding…
If this cast is too weak, too bland, too sad, too rebellious, too anything, we are doomed to fail. I look over to Penelope, still manning her station. We make eye contact. She looks worried too but holds up her finger and fixes her hair.
That's right. Like Father says. A Pennyworth never loses his composure.
"Odysseus!" Father's voice is borderline screaming, just barely a whisper.
"What, Father?"
"Thi…. Jus... Wait." He storms off, most likely to face watching the Reapings all buy his lonesome. Can't have the people seeing him break down, can we.
I turn my attention back to the Reaping. The generic promo played every year in every district has just wrapped up. I steel myself.
I've lost much care for watching the Games. Too stressful. The only thing flashing in my mind is how this will affect that and how that will affect the money, the betting. Positively unentertaining. This is the most suspenseful part for me.
"Ladies first," the escort, Valerianne, says, with that annoying tiptoe-skip thing she always does when she speaks, and skips over to the girls' bowl, her high heels tapping and pastel pink dress swaying in the wind all the way.
"Turquesa Miracelest!"
The camera takes a while to find the girl, standing in the seventeen-year-olds' section. She doesn't seem to want to walk up to the stage, obviously expecting another girl to volunteer.
She eventually shrugs it off and walks up to the stage, looking to a girl near her in annoyance and gesturing rudely up at the stage. The girl only smirks. She must be the one supposed to volunteer.
The girl, Turquesa, is pretty, even in her annoyance. Her jet black hair, even darker than Father's, rolls down her back without any sort of curling or braiding, contrasting with her tannish beige skin. Her vividly green eyes display her irritation. She is rather short, also, despite the tall combat boots she wears that are as dark as her hair and dress.
"Any volunteers?" the escort asks.
Silence.
"What?!" Turquesa looks directly into the eyes of the girl from before. She still wears a infuriating smirk of cruel pleasure. "NO! She's supposed to volunteer!"
"Sorry, darling, but no appears to want to take your place." The escort looks at her with enthusiasm. "You should consider yourself lucky you have this generous act of kindness bestowed upon you. Not everyone gets to be in the Hunger Games, you know." She says "Hunger Games" with relish.
The girl's cheeks are gradually flushing. She hasn't taken her eyes off of the girl in the crowd. She shakes her head. A single, solitary tear smears her heavy black mascara.
At least this girl is interesting, different. The pretty blonde ditsy killers were getting old.
"Don't be so glum, sweetie. Let's see who your partner is."
The escort skips happily over to the male bowl.
"And the boy is… Copper Worthy!"
The camera has no time to find the boy in its scramble before another lazily calls out, "I volunteer,". He says it in a way that suggests a casual anticipation, moderate excitement.
He locates the camera before it does him and gives a confident smirk. The boy also is somewhat an oddity in terms of appearance, though weirdly familiar. He has dark brown hair and is very pale, with a smaller figure than most of the boys in training. Nevertheless, he is handsome.
From all of my years watching the Reapings from an analytic perspective and not one most eager fans do, what do they care, they'll only remember the victor afterwards anyway, I've become rather adept at reading the tributes, and something tells me that this boy has something up his sleeve. I see it in the way he walks, halfway strutting, but with a large, deceptive grin, and his eyes, those dark eyes. They're hiding something.
"Name, darling?"
"Marvel Silver, miss."
"Why, that does ring a bell," she prompts the tribute.
"My brother Luxe was in the Hunger Games five years ago."
"Ahh, yes."
All around me, the onlookers are discussing amongst themselves. Some doubtful at the boy's happy surface attitude and small figure, others interested, but most trying to see if their friends have any memory of his brother. It seems they don't.
I do think I may, though. A dark-haired boy like him, with those deceptive dark eyes, too. He was betrayed by a girl, a blonde girl. Could it have been the Victor from that year, Katrina Cassidy? Maybe. But I can't think about that and let myself get sidetracked. Father typically decides who he wants to advertise on the billboards pre-Games today, but since he has had his meltdown, I guess the duty has been left to me. God knows Penelope's judgement skills are far too unreasonable, she would predict the girl with the cutest outfit to win, and Andromeda and Calypsia have both disappeared, both probably in bed with high bidders. How dare Father whore out his own daughters?!
And yet, there is no time. My stomach lurches again as the feed is transferred to District Two, and my nerves seize my body once more. Just give me some interesting careers like the ones from One!
Contrary to the beautiful flora and majestic white marble of the District One Square, Two's is cement, void of any festivities except Panem flags and red and white ribbons hanging from the pillars, and a massive banner adorned above the stage. It draws attention away from the moss growing through the cracks of cement. Ironically like my own situation.
Pomponius Hemshire is the escort that everyone remembers, whether it be for his forty years in his position or Roman-esque attire. Today he wears a toga with a red sash and reddish-gold battle armor.
"Welcome all, welcome all," he exclaims, "to the Reaping of the 157th Annual Hunger Games." His voice has a way of echoing even when there is nothing to rebound off of. "I am sure you are all so elated to be here for this grand occasion again." He is met with raucous applause.
After the thirty-victor list and video, conveniently shortened for all districts after One, he marches over to the females' bowl.
"And now, let us see who our first brave representative will be!... Granite Vizzina!"
"I volunteer as tribute!"
The girl's voice wavers towards the end and her voice cracks. She seems to be embarrassed at her voice crack and recoils into her coal black dress as much as she can, her brown hair shrouding her slightly. It contrasts deeply with her pale skin, but none of these are the first thing that anyone notices about her. It is the heavy pastel blue face paint that she wears across her nose and eyes like a visor, a straight line stretching from one end to the other. An audible gasp fill the hall, and curious mutters erupt.
And that is not all. She seems to be talking to herself, muttering, whispering. Her eyes roll back and to the side, as if rudely ignoring someone nonexistent behind her. She makes her way up the stairs slowly and she looks out into the crowd with paranoid eyes. They do not seem patriotic or proud. Most murmur amongst themselves or squint at her in surprise. Some even laugh.
"Name, my good madam." Pomponius says it as a command, not a question.
"Scylla Frigard." The girl is quite camera shy. She hasn't looked directly towards it once.
"Yes, a lovely name." Pomponius seems not to care for her, probably disappointed, and glides quickly over to the other bowl.
"And now, it is the men's turn!"
"Scipio Starr!"
This time the lanky and awkward pubescent boy manages to make his way out of the fifteens' section before the career volunteers. He looks incredibly relieved to be able to hop back into the crowd.
The new boy seems to be steeling himself. There is something I guess is a scowl on his sharp face, and he is tall even compared to his peers, with blonde hair and sharp green eyes. He, too, is timid. This has been a weird year so far. I can't tell if that is a good or bad thing yet.
"Arlo Maddox," he says before Pomponius has finished his flourish and asked his name. He seems to want to get things over with.
"Ah, yes. Shake hands!"
The equally uncomfortable tributes do so and gratefully rush into the Justice Building. All around me the betters chatter. Two timid careers, a small boy, and a Reaped tribute just out of the get go. This is not looking good.
The District Three Square makes the previous One look like a palatial courtyard. Almost no attempt is made to be festive or patriotic, everything and almost everyone are coated with a layer of grime. A total disgrace.
The escort quickly calls out the name of the Reaped tribute. A perfectly drab girl, almost too tired to be terrified, stumbles out into the spotlight. Her skin hangs off of her skinny, haggard frame, and tears run down her face, creating streaks of white against an otherwise grayish brown face. And then words ring out that shock me to my stomach.
"I volunteer!"
Good God, get this ugly girl off the screen, give us more of this girl! Her beauty is unmatched in the crowd, her brown hair falling in waves and perfectly framing her face. She is so captivating; I can't resist being allured. The way that she takes possession of the screen as she walks is masterful.
"Nerissa Doppler, and I am so happy to be here!"
I hadn't even realized the escort had asked for her name.
My attention is then drawn to a wailing from the crowd.
"No, Nerissa! NO! Why, baby?!"
Has that always been there? Ugh, snap out of it, I tell myself. This is not the time to be fawning over someone probably destined to die a gruesome, televised death.
"Bolt Dattery!" The boy is Reaped next, and he, unlike Nerissa, seems utterly terrified and furious.
The kid in question darts out of the fifteen-year-olds' pen and in a flash is up at the stage. The escort, though she herself is short, is about his height and his district partner has an inch on him. He can't stop moving, whether it be twirling his spiky blonde hair or jumping around like a rabbit, and he seems to be looking out to his loved ones and friends. There a many sad faces in the crowd. This boy must be a popular one.
In District Four the sunlight is blinding, and fluorescent rings are on every camera no matter the angle.
The escort here is Delphini Webbcrest, mermaid enthusiast. Her skin is a deep hue of blue, and her dress resembles scales of blue and green, somewhere morphing into the prosthetic fish tail protruding from her rear. Hideous.
The girl is called first, and unlike most careers nowadays, the chosen volunteer waits honorably until the Reaped tribute has made it to the stage.
"I volunteer!"
This new girl commands attention as she makes her way up the path to the stage. She is tall, very tall, possibly even six feet, and she emits an aura of power and intelligence. The children cheer for her prematurely, and she even gets a whoop from somewhere outside those eligible that makes her blush.
"Well, who could you be?"
"My name is Talisa Rowland, and I will be the next Victor!"
"Why, maaaarvelous," Delphini says as she traipses to the opposite bowl. "And now, for the sea-men!" She seems proud of what she thinks must be a clever joke, incorproting sea into the word men, oblivious to the fact that she just said a word entirely inappropriate.
"Marlon Blyth!"
"No!"
"Aquatico, I have to, let me go. I'm sorry!"
Two boys in the sixteens' section are bickering. One of them, Marlon, probably, is trying to force his way out of the pen, but the other boy is holding on to him.
"Aquatico! Someone will volunteer, anyway!"
But no volunteer comes.
"I volunteer as tribute!"
"NOOOO!"
Now, the positions are reversed.
"You can't, Aquatico, you can't!"
"Marlon, I already did! Don't worry, man, I'll be back in a flash. I got the moves." He points cringily down to his bare feet. Besides, I can't let my favorite fan die on me now. I promise I'll be back for an encore performance."
He leaps out with a flip and gives the camera a wink.
The boy, Aquatico, I guess, is noticeably short, though it could have something to do with his lack of footwear. Nevertheless, he seems optimistic, and does a good job of holding it together.
The pair shakes hands and head inside.
Onto District Five.
The escort there, some weirdo acrobat in a skintight black suit, looks highly uncomfortable subjected to the cold stares and anxious mood of the natives. Who can blame him? Who came blame them?
He pulls the first name, a girl, and she looks to be quite possibly under one hundred pounds despite being a bit tall for a girl her age, fifteen. Her name is something odd.
"Nani!"
A girl's voice shrieks, echoing off of the still silence aside from the girl, who has her hands cupped to her mouth to muffle her quiet sobs. The girls around her part to let her through and she obliges.
"No, Konani!"
A boy who resembles her, possibly her brother, bursts from the seventeen-year-old boys' section and they meet in a tight embrace.
"NO! You can't take her! Pick someone else!"
"No, Ziv, no, I have to do this, I'm sorry."
The pair is ripped apart and Konani is tossed unceremoniously onto the stage.
"Don't be so unhappy, it's for a good cause, precious." He seems to think that this comforts her.
Having my life savings staked yearly on this game of games has caused me to look at the it not as a sporting event to watch with glee and impulsively, lightheartedly gamble on, but a real life, life or death situation not to be taken lightly. No, I don't see these people as equal, including my mother, but I still see them as people with personalities and not just flashes in a pan. I don't forget as easily as most. Yet, they are still pawns to move around on the chess board that is the Hunger Games.
The boy, something like Eli or Elior, is brought up to the stage next, and he looks utterly horrified. He makes his partner look normal, also. His hair is a dark brown and he wears a thick looking navy, white, and yellow suit that can't be doing him any favors in the heat. His face is rapidly morphing from red to green and back over and over. He looks sick.
And he is. Bile splatters the stage and his partner is the only one to run to the rescue, patting his back and untying his tie. The gesture is touching.
In District Six, the girl who is Reaped is without a doubt the prettiest girl in the crowd, despite being only thirteen. She stands taller than almost all of the girls in her pen, and her black hair falls in waves down her back. Her tan skin stands out and her face is sharp and angular. A childish beauty and a mature attractiveness intermingle. She'll have no trouble getting sponsors, though by the looks of her they might be unwanted.
And she does look pissed. However, as she angrily stomps up to the stage, I can see something much deeper. Confliction? Fear? Sadness? All three? Something is bubbling up inside of her. Something she can suppress for now, but under the stress of the arena? Maybe, maybe not.
And then the boy is Reaped. Carroll Heinback puts Scylla Frigard to shame in terms of weirdness. He wears a clown suit! A clown suit! Straight blue wig, a garish checkered shirt and pants, massive shoes, and a red nose to boot!
The Capitalites around me are hysterical and shocked at the same time. The gangly, tall boy bawls, maybe the worst of anyone Reaped yet.
"No!" A woman who looks to be his mother fights against his apparent father. "Not him, too! Not him, too! I've already lost enough!"
Carroll is shoved to the stage. There, the girl, Keeley, murmurs something to him. He looks at her in shock, and no more tears fall from his eyes. The two shake hands, and it is with still faces that they amble into the Justice Building of the district.
So far the crop has been interesting, to say the least. Things are beginning to look up. Nerissa, that Three girl, could be a gamechanger, and the careers so far are incredibly diverse.
I feel a poking on my back and turn around to see Penelope.
"Dissy, I have something to tell you!" she whispers urgently.
"I assume it can't wait, can it, Penny?"
"No! Dissy, I overheard two men talking from behind a wall about something. Dissy, I think they're trying to kill someone. What if it's Father? I'm scared."
She clings on to me.
"It's okay, it's okay, nothing to worry about. You probably just imagined it."
After taking a while to calm down, she says, "Yes, you're probably right."
But deep down, I feel much more nervous. What if this is something bigger? Who are they trying to kill, if Penny indeed heard correctly? Could it be Father? No. But what would happen if it was? Would I inherit the company? That would be nice. But no, no, I can't let myself think so greedily.
Who could it be? The President? The Head Game-maker? The Head Peacekeeper? A question for another time, another day.
"You best get back to the counter, we need all the bets that we can take, can't we. Go on, you do that, I'm taking notes for Father."
"Okay, Dissy."
"One more thing," I call to her as she pushes her way through the horde of people. "How are the bets going?"
She doesn't seem to hear me. I guess I'll just have to wait.
Meanwhile, on the television screen, the Seven boy is walking up to the stage. Damnit, I didn't get his name!
The boy looks to be doing a good job of holding himself together. A nervous smile is plastered across his face, but it doesn't reach his eyes.
"Well, this isn't very good," he says to no one in general, brushing his blonde hair out of his eyes. I feel bad for the boy, just trying to keep the mood light. A losing battle to fight if there ever was one. "By the way, I go by my last name, Hunter."
Next, a girl name Tessa Oakhart is Reaped, and I immediately think of Penny. I knew a really young one was coming soon. This tiny scrap of a girl stands no chance of winning. I can see the odds flashing in my mind, at best in the sixties. She stands there, in a state of shock. Not even a tear escapes her eyes.
Unusual for someone her age, nobody cries out from the crowd. I wonder if there is any story behind this girl, but even if there is, it will probably never be told. She looks like a bloodbath. The camera does find a boy who has jet black hair and tan skin like her, and tears are falling. He holds the railing in a white-knuckled grip.
As the two tributes shakes hands, a flash of recognition passes between them. Do these two know each other. Possibly. I just hope the young boy, Hunter, doesn't waste his chances trying to protect her when he could put up a strong fight potentially.
District Eight is perhaps the most depressing of all of the Squares. At least in District Twelve it is usually sunny, and greenery can be seen beyond the walls, and in District Six the elites are closed off enough to keep the Justice Building nice, but in District Eight there is nothing of the sort. Permanent dark grey skies and the grime and smog make everything positively miserable. Just get us out of here quick.
The escort calls out the girl tribute: "Silk Merrena!" A plain older girl, probably from one of the homes, and a rare redhead, bursts into tears and wails. Wails, wails, and wails, past sad and into pathetic. Little kids scream for her from the ineligible section. They have red hair too.
And all of a sudden, as this girl mounts the Reaping stage, those golden words, those words you never, ever, ever expect to hear in District Eight, ring out across Panem.
"I volunteer as tribute!"
This new girl is small, with flyaway black hair covering part of her face, and stunning purple eyes visible even from this far away. A triumphant, enchanting smile is across her face.
"Thank you! Thank you!"
Silk runs down to meet the new girl in the middle. Nobody else does, no family, no friends.
"How can I ever repay you?"
"Don't worry about it."
The volunteer is small and skinny, still with a toned figure, and somewhat resembles a lynx, with her big purple eyes and long legs. This girl could be a contender.
"Name, kind madam," the escort, some batty old man dressed up as if this were a tea party asks her.
"Mystic Archeron, bitches." She holds up a dirty finger. "Read it and weep!"
And now she has entirely blown all of her chances. The Capital will never let a rebellious nutter win. Or maybe that was her intention?
"And now, it is the gentlemen's turn."
"Cassius Heart!"
"What! No!"
It is not the boy that speaks, but a very rich looking woman. She could even rival Capitalites.
"Pick another boy! This one is mine! He's actually worth a damn! Do you know who I am?!"
The boy, meanwhile, clings onto the boy beside him, another rich boy, this one much more handsome and trimmer than he, and pleads him in the eyes to volunteer as he bawls. His friend is repulsed and kicks him to the ground, then pretends like nothing is happening.
And, so, as his mother screams for a redraw, this boy bawls hideous, unsightly tears. He has curly brown hair and is fairly short and overweight. No one but his parents seem sad to see him go.
"Get a grip," his district partner says to him as they shake hands. He has not stopped crying and doesn't as he enters the Justice Building. The polar opposite of Mystic.
His mother has by now gone hoarse. "Don't pretend like you do not hear me! Don't take my s-" She is cut off as the feed transfers to the mesmerizing wheat fields of District Nine.
The boys are Reaped first this time. The boy, Coleus Yarrow, is sixteen, and looks to be well fed, a bit shorter than most boys his age. He stands out from the crowd even before he is Reaped, with his light brown skin and chubbiness. He has a look of extreme nervousness and anxiety about him more than anything, even fear as he mounts the stage.
And then, as Catonius gleefully remarks on commentary, there is another volunteer.
This girl's voice is powerful. She stands a head taller than most of her peers. She looks proud and confident, and her black hair is tied in a tight braid. She has an intense loyalist look about her. She's almost scary.
"Name, dearie?"
"Imperia Crimson, pleased to meet you, and I am so very proudt o represent my district and to partake in the Hunger Games!"
She has a giddy excitement that she still manages to make intimidating. A vibe of power exudes from the television. Her name is accurate.
In District Ten, the girl is Reaped first. To add to the already staggering crop off odd outer-district tributes, this girl might just be the most… weird. Rhiannon Caster is taller than average, and her lean, slender, doe like frame is oddly graceful. Dirty blonde hair falls in waves down her back, and a halfway withered flower is tucked behind her ear. In contrast, her palms bear noticeably red scratch marks. From what, I do not know or have the faintest clue.
She remains oddly calm, as if she either doesn't comprehend or care about the likelihood of her survival. She looks completely innocent, like she couldn't hurt a fly. And still there is that something unsettling that I can't put my finger on.
"Call me Ri," she says to her escort once on the stage. And then she mostly closes her eyes, tilts her head, and smiles. I can't tell if the gesture is cute or creepy. "And I'd like to say bye-bye to my piglet, Dew. I love you."
The boy is next.
Raihan Everstow is a nice, normal tribute, but it is still sad to see the young boy be Reaped. He has only moderate success at keeping it together. The crying of a young girl sounds in the background.
A boy in a wheelchair has been raising his hand up, but due to his sitting position, has not been called upon. Raihan spots him and yells, "No, Noello, don't do it! Don't do it! I'm strong enough! I can do it!"
He runs up the stage and is finally forced to turn around and look into the crowd.
"Raihan!"
The camera zeroes in on the weeping child that made the noise. His sister.
The boy can't hold it together any longer, despite his efforts. He falls into tears.
District Ten won't be getting very many bets this year.
District Eleven's Square is overgrown with weeds and tree roots busting out from the ground. The cement is broken into large chunks and uneven on the ground. How unsightly.
"Sierra Hay Fields!"
The girl's expressive face provides a looking glass into her shock. She cups a hand to her ear to make sure she heard the name right before her face flushes red and she steps out of her pen. Though she tries her best to keep her composure, her fear and shock still are visible. Her skin is a dark brown, almost back, from her days in the fields, apparently, and her frame is very tall, and muscular, too. Despite this, she still has an alluring, exotic look to her. This girl is a force to be reckoned with.
"Tomato Parsnips!"
Before the lanky eighteen-year-old has a chance to make it to the stage, for another time the words 'I volunteer as tribute!' ring out. I am in disbelief.
The boy who has just volunteered is short for his age, and one of the rare white people in his district. His voice has a harsh, angry tone to it. The kid is probably some rebellious, idiotic teenage career wannabe. Dark bags are under his eyes.
"Name, good sir?"
And then something very, very odd happens. It is as if the boy has completely changed in personality. He gasps and yells out, "No, no, no! This can't be happening! What did you do?" His face reddens and tears pool in his eyes out of panic. He is hysterical.
"No, it was an accident, he did it! It wasn't me, it wasn't me!"
His partner looks sympathetic, but she is the only one.
"I said, name, good sir?!"
He is too hysterical to answer. A Peacekeeper rushes to whisper something in her ear, and she steps up to the mic.
"Aleyn Garsow is your male tribute, District Eleven."
What is wrong with this boy. Is it just me or are there a whole lot more nutters than normal this year?
In District Twelve, the final district, the girl Reaped is lackluster. She, Tabitha Declan, won't be getting too much money placed on her. Her copious tears smear her haphazard, garish makeup. From her slate gray standard dress, I can tell she is an orphan. She makes no noise at all. Just painful tears and silent shivers.
Then is the boy. "Rooker Hilt!"
"Bullshit!"
The angry young teen punches a boy in his way in the gut and immediately grimaces and recoils, clutching his ribs. Could he have a broken bone? If so, he is screwed. Though, by his behavior, he is already probably so.
He storms up the stage like a petulant child and comes close to smacking his escort. After reluctantly shaking hands with his partner, Tabitha, he is carried inside.
"I won't stand for this! Fuckers! Assholes! Let me go!"
With that, the Reapings have finished. My stomach does a somersault. I need to look at the betting board. Shut up Catonius, finish your monologue and let us look at the board!
And there it is… More bets than last year! When the crop was so strong the lowest score was a six! My worry turns into elation. This is bound to be a good year.
By the looks of the board, the Four girl, Talisa, I think, leads with about twenty percent. Trailing her are Scylla and Imperia, after them the Two boy, Arlo. Then is Nerissa, the ravishing volunteer from Three, with about ten percent, and after her the Ones. The only others with bets over one percent of the total are Aquatico, Mystic, and Sierra.
This is bound to be a good year. Nothing can go wrong!
And now it is time to turn my attention back to the most pressing matter. I need to see Penny again and ask her what all she knows that she didn't have time to tell me.
"BANG!"
The sound of a gunshot fills the air. I drop to the floor in fear as the people around me run frantically, tripping over their Tudor coats and flowy dresses. Dread penetrates me.
A girlish scream reverberates off of the marble walls. I know that scream. Penny.
It is accompanied by the anguished yell of a man, the sobs of women. I reach a forming crowd that lets me pas through, knowing who I am. And there he lies, on the floor, drenched in blood down his front, deathly pale.
Father.
Duhn, duhn, duhhhhh!
What did you guys think of that cliffhanger? Surprising? Interesting? I am sorry to have taken long to get this one out, I thought it would be a breeze but somehow it was my longest chapter yet! XD Anyway, please tell me what you thought of all the tributes and whether or not this chapter was entertaining. I also hope you are excited to dive into this Capital subplot, because boy, do I have some things planned.
I also have to thank all of the submitters for giving me such an interesting and diverse cast, since this is the first time, we are seeing them in full, all together. I had a lot of fun making this chapter and it wouldn't be possible without all of you.
Question time:
How many volunteers are there?
What to predict will happen with the Capital subplot?
Have a nice night/day for all of you who read this far, and please review.
-Mills