Open SYOT, yadda yadda, rewrite of Ad Mortem because I am not proud of how I did with it and feel like I could improve a ton on what I had. You have until uhhhhh May 10th to get some submissions in. Form is on my profile, as is a google form link if that's your jam.
01 – DEEDS OF THE SAINTS
Lola Amos, Interviewer of the Hunger Games
Today was a big day. The biggest day of her career, possibly.
Lola stared into her mirror, twisting and turning all the while in the hopes of getting all her angles in view. On her pedestal, her high heels clicked together with each movement while three other Lolas stared back at her, each one as judgemental as the last. She wasn't pleased with this outfit, and she knew the Capitol wouldn't be either.
Glass was so last season. She'd be a laughing stock at this rate, but everyone else insisted she'd stand out. She would make glass have its comeback, they said. She'd make it look classy, not tacky, they said. Looking at herself now, she may as well have been stuck to a corkboard. Tacky down to the slippers and jewellery.
Oh well. Lola sighed and turned on her heel, regarding her stylists with a blank expression. At least it wasn't just her going out there tonight. Being the youngest, and albeit least flashy of the Flickerman siblings, she never was actually excluded from big events like this. Caesar had tutored her himself to take over interviewing, had left in his will that he wanted Lola to be loved as much as his legitimate children. So if Lola was in glass, then her older siblings certainly were as well. Knowing her luck, though, they were given the more respectable glass outfits rather than trying to mimic Cinderella.
"You look lovely, Ms. Amos," one of her stylists said. Everyone was on edge, aware she wasn't happy with the ensemble, but what could they do? When the two elder siblings demanded a theme, Lola had to follow along and smile. "Like a princess."
"Don't be ridiculous," Lola sighed. She stepped down from the pedestal and lifted her skirt, the ballooning material a pain in the ass to walk in. "Remove the skirt from the bodice. Dante, there are pants decorated silver that'll match; get them. Elise, repurpose the skirt into a cape. The gloves and bodice can stay."
Even when you were family, showbusiness was as cutthroat as the Hunger Games. And when you were the face of the Hunger Games, its interviewer, its promoter, the simple announcers were bound to sabotage you and try take your place. Some days Lola wanted to indulge them, let herself leave the scene and see which one of them succeeded in taking her place. There could only ever be room for one interviewer onstage, after all. And with the tributes they had to interview… well, three was a crowd. It wouldn't be about the tributes anymore if both of them got their way.
The fixes to her dress were done in record time, though stress was given the credit for such a feat. You didn't want to piss off Mr. Flickerman's apparent favourite, even if the older ones had more power over his wealth. Lola was good with rumours, with slander, with making herself the victim; it was easier to fear her when she caught on to her siblings' schemes, more than the siblings themselves.
"You have twenty minutes before the announcement is made live, Ms. Amos," one of her agents reported. Lola glanced over at them just as the cape was finished, and she draped it over one shoulder. The glass slippers were much more visible now, much more elegant rather than tacky. "You still want to interview both the Head Gamemaker and President, yes?"
"Naturally," Lola answered.
"We've received a call from Head Gamemaker Nero that she'll be in the sitting room of the President's residence. She and the President intend to wait for you there for the interview."
"I'll be watching the announcement from there, then." Lola let out a breath. This was fine. Gave her plenty of B roll for the reruns at least. And she could prepare her questions with the few minutes she had between the announcement and their arrival. She gestured to her team, her tone commandeering and firm, and they all filed out of the room behind her without hesitation. It was nice of the President to let her use one of the dressing rooms in the palace. Her siblings could never say they had the same luxury.
The team traversed through the palace. Her cameraman had enough sense to film plenty of B roll footage all the while, and Lola walked slow enough for her makeup artists to keep her hair and face pretty enough for when they were on camera. Not many people were allowed entry to such a prestigious place, not even Lola's siblings, and it only served to solidify herself as the favourite Flickerman.
The President's lounge was already set up for their arrival, chairs in place and a snack table out of view of the interview area. Lola sank down into the white-cushioned leather set aside for herself, and she let out a pleased hum as she felt the comfort hit her right off the bat. As always, the President had top tier tastes in décor and lifestyle choices. It was no wonder she selected exclusive furniture from only her favourite companies for the victors to live with upon their return to their districts. Lola waved a hand to one of her assistants as the last of her eyeliner was applied, and in an instant a flute of chardonnay was handed to her. She swirled it, took a sip, and then looked to her team.
"Is everyone ready?" she asked, voice low and stern. If any of them dared to be unprepared, then what were they even doing here? "This isn't any Quell, remember. It's a century of Hunger Games. A milestone to end all milestones. Literally a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity."
One of the interns paled. Lola sipped her chardonnay and huffed. Amateurs. If they were in her shoes, they'd have crumbled under everything beyond the pressure of a hundred years of Hunger Games. The stakes, the competition, the Quell itself, the potential changes to keep up with the times. After a hundred years, it was obvious that everyone involved in the Dark Days were long dead and their descendants either resenting them or giving up hope for revolution entirely.
"You know what?" she went on. "How about all of you just keep quiet and not touch anything? I'll carry us all to the title of best interview team of the century. Not like I don't know a good chiropractor."
A chorus of apologies, no louder than a mumble, and then one of her interns stepped forward. "M—Ma'am, shall we turn on the program and get information on the Quell twist?"
"That's the first good thing I've heard," Lola sighed. "Switch it on. I want everyone to take notes on questions we can ask regarding the twist. Lord knows what kind of mathematics we have to do to understand it if it's more complicated than double the tributes."
The fanfare on the screen was almost a whole world away from the silence in the room. Despite being in the Presidential Palace themselves, the program filmed just a short distance away on the property to droves of adoring fans and loyalists, patriots and sadists alike, Lola couldn't hear a single voice beyond the room. For all the cheering and hollering, chanting of the President's name, the Amos group only knew tense silence and anxious patience.
On the screen, the faces of Ptolemy and Arsinoe Flickerman smirked at her as though they knew she'd just tuned in. They chatted among themselves, their heads growing bigger with every mention of how momentous the occasion was for them, how proud their father would be to see them host the 100th Games. The Quarter Quell to round out the Quarter Quells. Lola clicked her tongue and downed her chardonnay with a growl. She hated those two and their pride. Just because they were legitimate, acknowledged by Caesar outside of his will for their entire lives, they were better.
Lola hated them. Hated them so much. Hated everything they stood for. Hated the way they talked down to her and made her feel like she wasn't part of the family, like she was other—reminding her of the things she was.
Illegitimate. Clasping at fame. Attention-seeker. Homewrecker.
"Ms. Amos?"
Before she realised why she was being called out to, the flute in her hand shattered as her grip on it became too tight for the glass to handle. Lola's gloved hand shook, no signs of blood seeping through the fabric yet, and she sucked in a deep breath as the chardonnay dripped down the arm of the chair.
"What?" she snapped. Her agent was by her side in an instant, and a hand landed on her shoulder in an attempt at comfort. Lola clicked her tongue, leaned her head back with another growl. "I apologise. What is it?"
It was one of the interns cowering away from her that had spoken, having noticed her disdain for her half-siblings, and the young girl seemed to have only enough bravery to call out to her. A classmate of hers, also an intern, had to step in and actually give Lola a reason to not be mad.
"You don't have to apologise, ma'am," the girl said, diplomatic as ever. Probably the bravest of them all. If Lola had to pick any of these kids to take over for her when she retired, this one was the most promising. But that was a long, long time to wait and consider. "We just thought it important to let you know—it's not the Flickermans we came here thanks to, it was you. Romola Amos was our inspiration, a whole generation's inspiration, not Ptolemy and Arsinoe. And it's obvious the President feels the same."
Lola blinked at her slowly. She furrowed her brows and looked back to the screen without a word.
Why did everyone always feel the need to reassure her she was the one everyone loved more than the twins? She knew that, she would never have made it this far if she wasn't beloved by the Capitol. Her issue was purely personal, purely a matter of blood, not pride.
"Clean up the chair before the President finishes the announcement," she simply muttered.
And as though hearing her command, the twins' faces disappeared and instead, the live feed of the President's podium replaced them. Lola relaxed some, relieved to be free of the twins, and waved to her team to pay attention. She leaned forward in her chair as others came over to fix her glove and makeup, saving her hair for last, and the image of President Medea Crane appeared onscreen.
Medea was gorgeous as ever, youthful in appearance yet authoritative in composure. No one questioned the young leader following her first year in power, and with someone like Malvolia Nero backing her—the student of her own father, Seneca, and one of the most creative Head Gamemakers to date—it was hard to simply turn a blind eye to Medea. President Ravinshill used to be compared to a hound, a wolf; President Snow used to be compared to a snake, something cold-blooded; but President Crane, fitting of her namesake, was willowy and elegant like the bird. Lola sighed happily at the sight of her. Were it not for the stern benevolence of Medea Crane, Lola may not have even been alive the days following the revelation she made to Panem about her parentage.
After all, Medea's mother had been from the Districts too. Lola had been the perfect poster girl to keep relations between the Capitol and the Districts healthy when the time came for the not-quite-Capitolite President to show which side she was on: For the Games, or against.
She was so enamoured with Medea that, for the briefest of moments, she missed the most important part of her speech. The part where a large bowl of suggestions for Quell ideas was wheeled over to her, the part where Medea Crane would reach into the bowl with a gloved hand and select the twist of the century. The twist that would make Medea famous, make Lola famous, make everyone involved in this Quell famous.
Medea's voice was calm and rich like honey, languid as she moved gracefully back to the podium and spoke into the microphone.
"And now," Medea's voice echoed through the room, "for this year's Quarter Quell, the One-Hundredth Hunger Games, the century anniversary of the Games and the Treaty of Treason, I present our twist."
She popped open the envelope. Lola watched as her eyes darted across the Quell twist within. A twitch of Medea's brow, barely noticeable to the untrained eye—but to Lola, it was a sign of conflicting emotion. Torn between joy and despair, much like when she'd decided to use Lola as her neutral stance between the Districts and Capitol.
Medea turned the slip around, and on the screen behind her the very same words on the paper began to appear. Aloud, she announced, "Only one child from each District shall be reaped, twelve in total, and will be accompanied into the arena with a child of the Capitol. The only way for the child of a District to win is to give sanctuary to those from the Capitol, as without the Capitol by their sides, the Districts had no hope of surviving the Dark Days."
There was a pause from the crowd. Hesitation. In the stunned silence of the room, Lola let her jaw drop as the words sank in. Medea was allowed to send Capitol kids into the arena. Medea was allowed to halve the number of children sacrificed to the Games. The Capitol, in their hubris, was forced to feel the same fear for one year that everyone else did.
A laugh bubbled up from Lola's chest. She leaned back in her chair, chuckling to herself, before the chuckles turned to wheezes. This was too rich. And she got to interview them! Her, a District-born homewrecker! She got to rub the salt in the wound!
For the first time since winning the 90th Hunger Games for District 2, Lola felt absolutely delighted to be involved in this madness.
