Hey everyone, Paradigm of Writing here with a brand new chapter of Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Death! Special occasion when I type out the full name of the piece, given that we, ladies and gentlemen, are beginning the tribute introductions for the story! I have an absolutely incredible cast on my hands, and via six intro chapters with four POVs per chapter, we'll meet every single tribute in this story, with another two rounds of POVs so each tribute has three POVs each... 72 POVs and it is going to be exhausting and I don't know how long it'll take, but I can't wait. Today, the four tributes for you are Jasper Overheart from ParanoidSylph, Nokomis Yanaba from Ripple237, Catalus Drachma from Manny Siliezar, and Porscha Watanabe from thornehub, the D3M, D10F, D1M, and D6F respectively. I cannot wait to dive into this chapter and I hope you all enjoy, cause I always see a surge of new readers/reviewers with these, and there's some special characters ahead! Here we go!
"When matters are desperate, we put on a desperate face." ~ Robert Burns
Jasper Overheart: District 3 Male P.O.V (18)
The shrapnel wounds are starting to hurt worse today. He notices the pain when he gets up out of bed, feet lightly skimming on top of the gilded wood floors, and the lash in his side also flares up too, eighteen year-old Jasper Overheart wincing heavily, grimacing, clutching a hand to his side. All he has to do today is lay low, it is that simple. Go work at one of the factories that'll take his labor for the day, make sure his brother and sister both get to school on time, and then spent the rest of the afternoon doing as he pleases later, when his job is done of course. However, the work he is trying to find becomes more sparse the longer he spends his time in District 3, but it is not his fault that his name carries the stigma it does. After the fifth refusal of the day, Jasper shakes his head, cussing under his breath, running a hand through his dark brown locks, that he hastily decides to die into a ponytail to keep it out of his face.
There's this spot underneath one of the crumbling bridges connecting the poor District 3 to the poorer District 3, a stone feature from the old days - if the old days can even be called that, given Jasper refers to those as before Nathaniel Coin slits the Vice President's throat open - that no one is keeping up with. There can be the occasional Peacekeeper patrol, but he's starting to pick up on those cues, from the way their boots make crunching sounds on the chipped gravel, said pathway leading to his hiding spot. It is the perfect ploy, the stencil tools he has in his pocket, and the mural sitting on the far back wall in the corner, though Jasper has no idea who designed it, it being a heart - fitting his name, he supposes, with a smile the first time he lays eyes on it, crimson paint bleeding all over the gray surface - left unfinished, about three quarters of it completed.
He is no artist, he won't be finishing it.
Jasper will shoot it, however.
That is one of the artifacts from home he'll keep close to him forever and ever, even if he loses his brother and sister, even if there is no hospital for him to work at, and even when District 13 is bombed off the map and everything he's ever- Jasper bites down hard on his cheek, the lucid taste of copper flushing through his mouth, staining his tongue. He got distracted again, and someone like him does not get distracted. As he had been saying, it is the artifact from home he'll never part with it, having it helps make him feel secure, able to cling onto a fleeting version of reality that blurred the moment Nathaniel Coin felt it to be his personal responsibility on taking down the Capitol, but once Thirteen did what they did? There had been no going back.
"And what good it did for us," Jasper thinks to himself, slightly bitter, trying to douse the bitterness out with a faint hint of optimism, given he'll be out of said crosshairs after tomorrow. "Losing brought us the Hunger Games."
It is such a morbid principle, when he hears about it, listening to President Emrick Israel's announcement while his younger brother and sister, Hollis and Hex are fighting each other with their spoons. He drops his own spoon into his bowl of cereal, some non-descript white pasty mush that is good for what he can afford with two other mouths to feed, unable to process what he had just seen. Two teenagers from each district to be selected to go to the Capitol and fight in a death arena... a form of punishment sanctioned by the very folks they tried to overthrow, and the districts signed off on it. That is what has him choking on the slop cereal the first time, sputtering raw flour and egg onto the table, scaring Hollis. What has him rush for a glass of water is when the ages are shown for the reaped - the concept of using that word in his head makes shivers race down his back - being twelve to eighteen years old that spurs a slight sense of panic in his stomach. He's eligible, just this once.
He shakes his head, frowning to himself at the prospect. Once again, distracted. This spot that he's standing under, the dilapidated bridge, is a perfect spot for his shooting activities, given that the running river nearby is always going off, and the electric fence that signals the crossing boundary difference is always alive, humming like buzzing bees on the air, singing clouds with an ashy kiss. Jasper loads another clip into the gun he's holding in his hands, the last thing his father hands to him before the beginning of the end. Bellamy Moreno, of all intents and purposes, is a good father, but Jasper is unsure how to feel about him when he presses said weapon into his palm, gaze more serious than he's ever seen it. It doesn't matter now, what Bellamy would say, or what his mother, Enjin, would want of him to do with the weapon. Jasper has no idea what kind of weapons will be used in that arena, and if he is somehow selected by all unlucky chances in the sky, he wants to be more prepared than any other person in there.
Jasper aims his gun level with the half-painted mural of the heart, there already being several bullet holes in the artistic creation. He fires a shot, the gun ricocheting in his hand, he feeling the vibration all the way up to his elbow, the tingle pulsating in his neck, he gritting his teeth together. He's a hard-worker, an Overheart is always one to put their nose to the grindstone. A second bullet hole enters near the first, he trying to aim for the dead center, but he supposes that if he's aiming to kill, in which he most certainly would be trying to do so, Jasper would need to level his sight just a bit to the right, where the actual heart is. He's so focused on the click of the gun when he pulls back the aim that he does not hear the set of combat boots marching on the graveled ground near him.
His next shot almost enters straight into the chest and out of the back of the girl who leaps in front of him. Jasper jolts in pure shock out of fright, his next shot haphazardly going to the far left, where it could've grazed the girl's arm.
"What the hell?" he screeches at her, throwing his hands back, pointing the gun in the other direction. "I could've just shot you!"
"They said you were flighty..." the girl smiles back at him, her own arms held behind her back as she leans up against the heart mural. "But, nice shot," she commends him, nodding in appreciation towards the bullets in the wall. "What do you say the chances are of you getting caught by the Peacekeepers firing an unauthorized weapon? I'd argue that the chances go up every time you take a shot," her eyes twinkle back at him, her own emerald eyes flashing with mischief towards his own, flecks of gray sparkling in confusion at the specimen standing in front of him. "You like to live dangerously Overheart, is that it?" The girl tilts her head to the side, short strands of cherry red hair brushing up against other bullet holes in the wall.
Jasper feels like someone dumped an entire bucket of cold water on him. "How do you know my last name?" he frowns, but he doesn't point the gun at her. Not yet, at least, for there's always an answer to the conundrums of the world, and this girl is most certainly a conundrum. "And they?" He tightens the grip on the end of the gun. It is getting close to the time to pick Hollis and Hex up from school, since he's finished his grades in the District 3 education system long ago now, since arriving in the Three, and he is not liking this one bit, warning signs flashing off in his head, the bleat of a siren echoing in his head. His father told him that wherever he went, someone would be trying to follow. Is that this? Has he been followed? "Do I know you?" Something about the girl looks familiar, very faintly, he frowning. Where would he have seen this girl before?
"I-" the girl starts, but another thought hits Jasper in the face like a brick wall.
"If you're offering sex, I'm not accepting it."
She smiles at him, curling a strand around her fingers. "No, that's not what I'm offering. As for your second question, if the prison system is aired on TV, maybe," the girl smirks, eyes briefly passing over Jasper's face, although he does not lose his composure or react to the statement. "You can call me Vess," she says, which he nods at, the girl running her fingers down the wall, onto the painting. "And as to the 'they', it simply was some of the men from the factories you've visited today," she counts off the places on her hands, all the hair on his arms standing up on end. "Jasper Overheart, who can't seem to find a job."
"And how would you know anything about that?" he grits his teeth at her.
"I followed you all day today," Vess shrugs her shoulders. "I had nothing better to do," she says shortly after, as Jasper raises an eyebrow in suspicion. What had it been his father tells him? Or his mother? Had it been his younger sister, Torke, who's older - who was, his mind corrects rather snappily - than Hollis that had said it? He's not sure, but he doesn't have a long time to dwell on it as the girl in front of him - Vess, which must be short for something - continues talking. "I'm looking to hire someone."
"Hire someone?" Jasper perks his head up, dusting off his overalls. There's an oil stain on it he has been incapable of washing out currently, but he'll get to it at some point when Hex and Hollis aren't battering themselves with buttered rolls that are super expensive to buy.
Vess runs a hand through her hair, the other hand tracing around the outer edge of the heart mural, stopping in the dead center, almost as if she were stabbing the heart with her pointer finger, the girl lifting her hand off of the wall and placing it back in the center. "Running some VR tech and I need a volunteer," she smiles at him, Jasper's chest twinging with pain. Who is the last person to smile at him like that? Back home? No one in Three, in this foreign land ever dares look at him, and if they do, it is with disappointment reflected in their eyes, or sharp bitterness drowning in scorn. "Trust me, I'll pay you handsomely."
"How much are we talking about?" he keeps his grip on the gun as tight as it can be. If Jasper needs to take a shot, she'll be the very first person he'll have ever aimed a weapon at. She wouldn't be the first person he potentially could harm, however, he bristling in place a bit.
"What's your pay normally at any of these factories that won't take you?" Gee, way to rub it in.
"Enough to put dinner on the table," Jasper responds, rather point blank about it. This is someone he can see himself becoming very good friends with, a bit eccentric perhaps, but he likes to cut to things immediately, skipping all the beating around the bush and diving into the point, and this Vess girl seems extremely good at it.
A gleam of mischief once again shines in her eyes. "Let me quadruple that, and then some..." Jasper nearly falls over, as if he had been shot by the weapon in his hands. Quadruple the amount of money he'd be paid? He tries imagining exactly how much that'd be in his head, but there's a computational overflow in his head that stops his normal thought process to continue. He can picture the excitement on Hex and Hollis's faces when he brings home that paycheck. They could throw as many buttered rolls as they want at one another...
Jasper falls forward somewhat, needing to rest on the other side of the unfinished heart mural, she about a foot away from him. "How on Earth would you be able to pay me that much money?"
Vess shrugs her shoulders, keeping the smile on her face. "Daddy's money can take a girl a long way..." He snickers at that response. Jasper can definitely recall a time or two when someone from home would get in his face about Daddy's money.
"Well, your Daddy's money got everyone at home killed, and got you and your Daddy killed as well, but no, I'm not bitter," Jasper tells himself, and then aloud to the girl, "What time?"
"After the thing scheduled tomorrow," she picks at her fingernails. "It is why I was released actually, because I have to go, being eighteen and all," her eyes find his, an electric shock racing through his system. "Do you have to go too?" he nods at her, without saying a word. "We can meet at my uncle's house after that, just over by the water tower." Jasper nods in affirming action again; she is in the lower-middle class side of town. He tries not to think about the shack that counts at his home, where dust from the ceiling above collects in sandhills at the foot of his bed, or all over his siblings' faces, Hex sneezing all throughout the night, but it is all he can afford.
He has no idea why he doesn't ask her what type of work she's offering, or the exact reason why he is being followed by someone he doesn't know, but the next question he asks is not one of those things. "What'd you go to prison for?"
A twinkle of some kind shines in her eyes, but Jasper cannot tell what it is. "If I told you, I'd have to kill you."
"I'm the one with the gun, sweetheart."
"You in or not?" Vess asks him, rather crossly, as Jasper had tightened his grip around the weapon a bit more, almost leveling it so it's pointed towards her feet. He's never been shot, and he reckons she's never been shot either. "I can go ask someone else."
Money is money, and lots of money is more money than just 'money is money', and Jasper has no idea how long the job drought will take place for, and he's not sure if he's going to just start stealing from vendors on street corners now, for those stupid buttered rolls. He doesn't even like butter. "I'm in, Vess. I'll see you right after the ceremony is over," he lowers the gun down to his side. When he gets home, he'll think of placing it in a new hiding spot, just in case she decides to follow him home. Saying the word 'ceremony' tastes like acid on his tongue. It is no ceremony, but a ritual, a ritual bathed in gore and offal, celebrating the deaths of two District Three citizens.
She claps her hands together, another smile crossing her face. "Perfect, glad to hear it; your help will be greatly appreciated," she steps off of the wall, looking at the mural for a second, Jasper thinking that she had closed her eyes while standing there, but she looks over at him after a moment. "And if I was offering something more than just a job offer, would you take it?" the girl, Vess asks him, batting her eyelashes at Jasper. "Y'know, for future reference?"
He almost fires the gun at her feet.
Almost.
Nokomis Yanaba: District 10 Female P.O.V (16)
Yanaba.
She hates her last name, translated as 'she meets the enemy.'
Why does it have to be an enemy that she meets? Why can't the world have someone nice to offer to her? Out here, however, in the wild, there is nothing but the beautiful world of nature around her, no one to talk to except for her own thoughts, in which they've always been wonderful company, and the hot sun beating down on her arms. Sixteen year-old Nokomis Yanaba moves her dark haired ponytail to the side, as she had been lying underneath it, shifting it on the rocky surface that she is resting up against, staring up at the bright blue sky, it being a cloudless day, the sun starting to go down in the far off distance, painting the sierra a gorgeous fluorescent yellow and pink, Nokomis absorbing the warmth into her system, smiling to herself.
Yet she's unable to stir the feeling like she's being watched, perhaps by the enemy she is meant to meet. Her parents are probably looking for her, since school had been cancelled for the reapings tomorrow - a word that sends shivers down her spine whenever she thinks about it at all - and she promises them before they leave that she'll stay home for the night, but something stirs in her stomach, a trapped animal clawing at invisible walls to break free that has her looking at the clock in the corner of the room and deciding to leave. After the initial panic wears off, she knows they'll calm down and everything will be back to normal. They know she's at the sierra, overlooking the beauty of District Ten and the surrounding emptiness of Panem for as far as her eyes can see. Down at the end of the plateau in which she climbed up to the top of, the electric fence of Ten's border rises high, about hundred feet in the air.
Down the line of the fence, as far as her eyes can see in either direction, is the occasional Peacekeeper tower for there's been the occasional miscreant who's believed they could paraglide right over the defenses, only to be shot down like a bird during hunting season. Nokomis inhales the arid air, sighing to herself. She's never approached the fence to talk to any of the patrols, and she knows that they see her lying down on top of the bluff, but no one comes and bothers her; she is no harm to anyone, maybe except herself. Up here, on top of the bluff, no one can bother her, luckily. There are steps carved out of the rock in the side, about a two hundred foot climb in the baking sun, but Nokomis has made the climb enough times where it no longer really bothers her, unless there happens to be a rattlesnake slithering near her, but even then that is not always enough to spike the fledging of anxiety in her stomach.
She has her notebook with her, it being a bit hard usually, if there's a gust of wind, to keep the pages down as she scribbles on the notepad, but Nokomis decides to paperclip several pages together to stem the problem from happening again. Several cacti have started to grow since the last time she's been up on the bluff with nothing but the open air for company, it probably lying somewhere in around two or three weeks since she's last visited, unable to tear herself away from work around the horse or 'activities' that her parents like to throw her into. If she has to throw just one more horseshoe at a stake in the ground, she might choke herself out with it. Weaving tapestries alongside her mother with her gentle voice and coaching hands has been fun, but Nokomis is yearning for the outdoors, it practically calling to her name.
Nokomis shifts her arms to behind her head, looking admiringly up at the clear sky. Being from a Native American family, there actually is not much of her heritage that she really knows about, except that there used to be the belief of their ancestors from any of the associated tribes would be up in the sky as spirits, free floating in the Aether or whatever the word heaven would be in their tongue - Nokomis knows no other language than that of English, her family not seeming attached to the concept of teaching her anything else - and looking down on those they've departed from. Nokomis doesn't like that concept at all, the very conception of being watched all the time by 'family' that might no longer have a high opinion of her when everything is said and done.
The girl looks at her notebook, a flimsy thing covered in a fine layer of grit and sand, flipping through a few paperclipped pages. Most of her poetry - yes, Nokomis does poetry, she knows that it is something dying in the grim world of Panem, since she's not from the Capitol and most citizens in Ten would look at her with a frown - is about the things she finds on the bluff, she flipping to a random one.
Crystal Skies
Nokomis remembers writing it rather vividly, it pouring down rain when she reaches the zenith of her hiding spot - not much of a hiding spot if there is absolutely nothing to hide behind - and she finds it hilarious to write a poem about clear skies during a thunderstorm, laying down and closing her eyes, waiting for the words to wash over her. There's one about a hawk, like the one that almost turns her bald a few months ago, or the owl who stares at her from its shadowy lair in the middle of a cacti, or the cactus themselves, the Peacekeeper towers which makes the Peacekeepers look like tiny, crushable ants down below from her height... Nokomis hugs the notebook tight to her chest, smiling to herself. Up here, no one can judge her, where even the sky is incapable of seeing her, and up here, she doesn't have to become anyone she doesn't want to be.
A sky in bleak gray.
A land bombarded with silver bullets.
A sun blotted out by murky clouds.
A girl soaked in the dirt.
Oh, how I long to see you, crystal skies.
Will you make yourself known again?
Her poetry is horrendous, Nokomis knows this, but she's not writing for anyone but herself. The first time she finds the bluff had just been ten months ago, when President Emrick Israel makes his announcement about the Hunger Games, she jolting straight to her feet after seeing the reaping age flash across the screen, and to then know that she's eligible? Her parents are yelling after her, and Nokomis is fairly certain her father takes out after her, but she's faster than he is at his older age, and there's panic flowing through her body, she losing her sandals somewhere in the run, tearing her own tanned bare feet on the dirty paths, and she runs, running as fast and far as her body can take her. Exhaustion hits her about ten minutes later, when she's cleared the fringes of town, by the water well, where someone had stolen the bucket, and out in the distance, Nokomis just barely able to make it out, is the plateau, and she decides then and there that she's taking the leap to run towards it.
She cries to herself, that first night, staying up there even when the temperature dropped to a more brisk level than what she's used to, it being around November when Emrick makes his announcement, for the Games are to always start in the dead center of August, when the heat index is reaching its peak, because of course that is when the Capitol decides it'll be held, just to drip out that last moment of uncomfortableness. Nokomis realizes just how lucky she actually is with her family coming back to her in one piece, when she's off living by herself for a few months, a neighbor taking care of her as her father goes off to fight, and her mother out to help the wounded. Her friend circle of two got tighter during that time then, as well, Nokomis going to another poem about her best friend Nebraska.
He's nothing super special, but she'll never say that out loud about him. His skin shines like a freshly grown wheat stalk, with a glimmering smile, as he throws an arm around the newest member of their group, Sandra, whose parents both died. There is a moment where Nokomis believes her father has passed away, when there's a correspondence sent to her house from the frontlines, she collapsing in a heap in the kitchen, Nebraska hearing her wail across town, racing to her house to comfort her, but it is a false flag, and she sets something afire, but she's forgotten exactly what it is that she destroys in that rage. Nowadays, her days alternate between going to the bluff and writing poetry or paying for the item she broke, something expensive, helping Nebraska's parents on their little ranch.
Her father would be proud of her, John Yanaba, a simple name perhaps, but she knows that her father would be proud of her for what she's doing, and how she'll stand bravely in the center of town and not get picked for the reaping three years in a row, surviving and saving her skin, and the Yanaba family tree will have survived the Hunger Games, for she knows her mother cannot handle another loss, and her father will not want to lose his only child... Nokomis wipes at a tear that slides down her cheek, missing one of them, it splashing onto the notebook.
She picks it up again, a pen in her pocket, holding the notebook out to the sun to block it out from blinding her. Nokomis has a new poem that has come to mind, out of the blue, like she's been struck by a lightning bolt.
Little People
Nokomis smirks at the conception of the name. Nothing wonderful, or original, but it is a start.
Tiny ants in a field.
District citizens corralled into pens.
Kids fighting to death in an arena.
Peacekeepers in their towers.
We're all little people, looking upwards to make sure we aren't being squished.
Ancestors looking at us from above, as we fail to the destiny our names were meant to ascend to.
Little people, littler people, and people lying in graves of sand, littler still.
Little people everywhere.
A lone hawk flying in the sky, looking down at the next meal.
I am the next meal.
Nokomis clicks the endpoint of her pen, putting it back into her pocket, frowning, reading over the poem again. God, it sucks.
Would her father be proud of her for this poem? Would he scoff at it in disbelief? Would her father tell her to put the pen down, walk back down the bluff and go back to tapestry weaving with her mom? Another game of horseshoes? No, not another game of horseshoes, she is going to hang herself at the end of one of these cactus if she has to play another game of fucking horseshoes.
She crumbles it up without a second thought, ripping it free from the notebook, tossing it down the side of the bluff, and Nokomis Yanaba will never hear when the failed poem hits the bottom.
Catalus Drachma: District 1 Male P.O.V (18)
This very well might be the last taste of luxury he gets in a long while, so eighteen year-old Catalus Drachma suspects he might as well enjoy whatever it is he can get his hands on, as he tightens his grip on the golf club in his hand, marking his shot, before swinging the club into the golf ball, watching it soar straight into the sky and down the green. Several beads of sweat roll down his forehead, coming from underneath the brimmed white golf hat, covering his combed over sandy beach colored hair, he wiping it with the back of a gloved hand, whistling when the golf ball lands firmly near the hole, and then, childishly, does a fist pump. He's been scoring like crap the last few rounds, so it is really nice to have his efforts rewarded. It is the last few hours of living stress free before the night falls, when the Drachma Conglomerate call a meeting.
His companion, Catalus's best friend Harmony, whistles in appreciation too, before going to place her ball down, using an iron instead of the driver that Catalus has clenched in his grip. He'd much rather stay on the green the entire time, dancing on the precipice of being told to leave, versus flashing a charming smile and seeing how the fairways worker knocks their knees together, he twisting one of the many rings that decorate his hand, the current one made entirely in a circle of solid ruby gleaming the most in the sun. He is luckier than most, to be fair, when he thinks about the Drachma Foundation, a non-profit organization started by his great grandfather one too many years ago, now helmed by his father Theron, which morphed into a vineyard owning company, a prestigious jewelry chain, and with Mayor Friedrich Calvary's help, private security protection, one of their own guarding the mayor in times of need, though their services have not been called on in quite a while. The change is officiated by Theron changing the title to Conglomerate from Foundation, to make it sound more business-like, especially when the Ash Wars or Dark Days or whatever phrase is used broke out.
Catalus tugs on the diamond earring dangling off of his left ear as Harmony lines up her shot, practicing a few swings, he getting bored and looking over at the golf cart sitting on the sidewalk. He has half the mind to just drive down to his ball and let her walk all the way there, on the gambling chance that Harmony will chase him around the course with her iron swinging above her head like a weather vane, just hoping to bash him in the side of the head. How hard would he have to swing his own club to behead someone with it? It is a passing thought he has every single time he's standing on the green, waiting for Harmony to then take her shots, as she always goes last after him. The only other time he's ever held a club in his hand in a way that-
He breaks off the thought, looking at his best friend with a smile, hazel eyes shining from underneath the brim of the hat, while the sun started to sink beneath the sky, painting it in an ocean of cardinal and carnation pink stripes. "Are you going to hit the ball any time soon, or will we be waiting till the crickets start chirping?" he jokes with her, she looking up at him silently, but scowling all the more, before she swings the club back and strikes the ball, missing terribly from where she actually is aiming, the ball streaking through the sky and falling like a downed bird into a sandpit.
She curses under her breath, actually tossing the iron down onto the ground. "I suck at this stupid game," Harmony rubs her face rapidly with her palms, stopping just at her jaw. "Why do I always agree to come play with you?"
"Because I'm enticing company," Catalus smirks at her, crossing his arms.
"Is that so?"
"Very much so," he teases her, and Harmony does indeed pick up the golf club and her bag full of them, a borrowed set between them as there are some expenses Catalus knows is silly to go and spend money on, such as two sets of golf clubs when he is the only one in his family who even plays. "I mean, you haven't refused me yet."
"And I'm starting to think I should," she scowls.
"Never!" Catalus feigns mock surprise, holding his hands up in the air, mouth forming an 'o' expression, causing Harmony to laugh. "Never!"
Harmony places the bag on the back of the cart, getting in the passenger side. Catalus nods his head, going to get his tee out of the ground, wrestling it free. That could be a sharp weapon as well, he realizes, studying the sharp point covered in grass stains. He pauses, closing his eyes to block out the sight of the captive running away that night into the District 1 streets, under the streetlights that shatter from the force of detonating bombs in the distance, tremors making him drop the driver that he's using in this very game onto the ground in shock, and Catalus does not pursue. And because of it- no, he is not going to confront the thought right now, during his last day of freedom. Tomorrow, standing in the pens, he'll do it, but now, with Harmony? Not a chance. It is a gamble he is unwilling to take, a risk he will not tackle.
Catalus throws his driver into the last available slot in the bag, putting the tee in his pocket. He goes round to the driver's seat, sitting down on the leather cushion, adjusting the mirror so he could get a look at himself. Olive skinned, no facial hair per the rules of the Drachma Conglomerate. Catalus has no idea why, exactly, after the travesties that have wrecked District 1, all the while a fake man sits in the high chair, that he follows the stupid rule of no facial hair, but given that it is his parents who've marked up the rules, on which he votes for them just several years ago as a matter of fact, Catalus suspects he's dug his own grave. He starts the ignition for the cart, Harmony holding onto the side restraint while the cart lurches forward. He has some driving experience, nothing much larger than the go-kart that is gifted to his family by the previous mayor years ago, but even under the golf kart, Catalus's hands are shaking.
It is not a long drive down to the hole, where both he and her balls are located next to, his marked with the family logo CD, the C intertwined with the D in a golden font, emblazoned in a velvet lining, the ball shining like a star in the sun. Catalus turns the ignition off again, grabbing the tee, holding it in his hand. He's about to go out of the vehicle, to grab his bag, when he realizes that Harmony hasn't moved, she sitting still and looking on ahead with a locked jaw. Her mousy brown hair is tied into a ponytail, a few strands loosely flying off over her ears, diamond eyes stark and focused, her mouth set into a thin line. He keeps his other hand on the keys, loosely pushing them around, and the tee rests up against the steering wheel, frowning. He's only seen Harmony look this serious when they're at the chips table, and she's in the weeds, wading through shit of her own making.
And they are most certainly not at a casino losing a round of blackjack.
"Harmony?" he asks, raising an eyebrow. "Are you okay?" Catalus doesn't realize he's doing it, but he's digging the tee into the steering wheel, scuffing up the leather, black bits coming free and blowing in the light breeze wafting through the course, as he had driven down a slight slope to get to the hole.
His best friend, someone he's known almost all of his life, being there every step of the way, and even being the first to sign up into the Drachma Conglomerate rebellion program when his father switches the funding from Capitol projects to District Thirteen projects, before Catalus even has a chance to pick up a pen and sign his own name to the binding contract, sighs, squeezing her eyes shut, tugging at the back of her ponytail. Her hands go for the dashboard, clenching and unclenching into fists, worry starting to spread over Catalus's body. "I was told not to tell you," she starts, and for a split second, Catalus's breath gives out, he swallowing heavily. "But I knew that it couldn't just come from the board members as it being the first time you'll hear it."
"Hear what?" He takes his hands off the keys, bringing the tee to his fingers, digging underneath the nail from the outside of the glove, tearing a tiny hole in it.
Harmony looks him dead in the eyes, the most serious he's ever seen her, beyond the point of losing at a poker game, and what she says next nearly has him fall out of the golf cart onto the sidewalk. "Tonight, at the meeting, the board is going to force you volunteer for the Games tomorrow."
It takes a second for it all to fully register in his head, but Catalus hears every single syllable she says, it passing over him like water crashing into a stony shore, except when the water recedes, he's simply blasted at full force again. "Wh- what?" he drops the tee onto the floor of the cart, but his eyes do not leave Harmony's face, her mouth morphing from a straight line into a frown. "You're- you're joking, right?" he ventures out, taking the risk of this all being an April Fools prank months later than when someone is supposed to pull the wool over his eyes. "This has to be a joke."
She shakes her head in dissent. "I'm being straight with you, Catalus," Harmony tilts her head to the side. "The members are calling one last board meeting, where they're going to effectively be dissolving the Drachma Conglomerate, and it'll be ripped out of your parents' hands," he recoils back in his seat like he's been sucker punched. That is his legacy, his entire legacy. It is named after their family, and someone's going to steal it? It isn't just for Catalus, but for his parents, for his older brother... for District 1! "They're going to force you volunteer, as well, and if you refuse to do so after tomorrow's events, they won't hesitate to kill you."
He could've been kicked to Mars by a simple feather.
Catalus sees Harmony's mouth moving, but there's no sound following whatever she says next, blood roaring in his ears, a cascading tide of pain surging down to his fingertips, scorching his palms. This is the retribution, the retribution for his mistakes. Even after Mayor Calvary announces District 1's surrender, the Drachma Conglomerate fights, fights, and fights, looking for someone who could replace the traitorous snake Friedrich who somehow manages to survive the culling of the mayors who are all executed on national TV where his father's name is tossed in the ring, but Friedrich survives, and the hammer stroke falls the hardest, and it all rested on Catalus's shoulders. It is a Peacekeeper or some sort of figure on Friedrich's payroll, someone who had intercepted a message between Nathaniel Coin and his father on the next big move they'd make against District 2 and the Nut, which's in a state of repair after District 2's official surrender from some heavy bombing.
He can recall how the air smelled that night, looking at the captive who is glaring at him, arms tied to the chair they're sitting in, but for some reason, Catalus forgets to tie their legs as well, getting a boot to the face, sending him to the floor. The man rips free out of his bonds, and all Catalus has to work with is a golf club, it being the driver now hanging in the back of the cart, but he's unable to do it, even though District 1's survival, and the survivability of everyone he's ever known or will ever know potentially rests on his shoulders, he does not take the swing. The slot machine is spun and rolled, and Catalus Drachma takes his chances.
This is his penance.
Catalus leans forward to rest his head on the steering wheel, taking a deep breath. "Forced to volunteer for a death match, and better yet, my family will lose their lifelong project," he looks up at Harmony from his height, she having tuckered in her lips into her mouth, an expression of remorse passing over her face. "My parents are okay with all of this?"
"They were outvoted," she whispers. "They did agree, however, that it be best they lose the Foundation, though," and that is another gut punch to his stomach, and for the first time in who knows how long, a single tear slides down Catalus's face, but he does not wipe it away. "Too many errors on the family name, and to step away from the spotlight," Harmony makes a cooing noise in the back of her throat. "I'm so sorry Catalus, I really am," she twists a lock of hair around her fingers. "I- I thought it best for you to hear it from me, and not someone else."
He doesn't even have the heart to say thank you, or acknowledge that Harmony has even spoken. Catalus slinks out of the golf cart, his entire body having gone numb, and when he moves his leg to go for the golf bag, it is as if he's lugging a heavy weight with him, unable to physically pick the limb up. He reaches the club, lifting it out, his exposed pointer fingers brushing up against the end of it, the weapon that will have forever caused all of his problems. Catalus takes a look up at the sky, at the bands of red and pink, and they no longer look pretty to him, but as if the sky is bleeding and on fire, moaning out his name, screaming his name out in fury. Harmony is calling his name, turning around in her seat, but not getting out of the kart, but he still cannot hear her fully.
Catalus holds onto the end of his club, and then, facing northwest, chucks his club out into the sky, it whacking against a palm tree, splintering off a branch onto the ground. He picks up his golf ball in his hands, looking at his initials engraved on the ball. What a joke, what a fucking joke.
He throws the golf ball with all of his might at a bird, hitting it dead on in the eye, rage coursing through his veins, and drowning out Harmony's panicked cry, or the cry of agony from the struck avian, is a gut wrenching scream that rips itself from Catalus's throat.
Porscha Watanabe: District 6 Female P.O.V (16)
Although it is not one of her father's adages, Porscha likes to use it often, just dropping in locations for whatever she sees fit: a trip to the market can always be exciting if you're having fun. She's gripping a wicker basket in her hands, humming lightly to herself, sidestepping busy passerby's heading in the opposite direction of her, as Porscha always goes and does her family shopping after dark, when there's hardly a crowd, for when there's hardly a crowd, it means less prying eyes on her back. Generally, Porscha doesn't mind the attention if she's the one asking for it, especially on stage and the lights are primed solely on her, but out in public, she's finding it harder and harder to keep prying eyes away, and glaring angrily back in their direction is not always the most effective means of dissuasion.
She passes underneath a Peacekeeper watch tower, getting closer to the market, which she can see one of the signs hanging on a banner, connected to a flagpole, out in the distance. District 6, having been the last to surrender amidst all the chaos ten months ago, has been the one reportedly to have the most added security, extra precautions taken to ensure another outbreak of fighting-back-fever - something Porscha coins herself, actually, feeling clever from it - does not happen again. Although she herself has had nothing to do with there being the tightened yoke around Six, her father is not so innocent in that accusation. Is it an accusation when the accusation is actually... true? Everyone practically knows it, her father's face pictured all over the district, to the point where he goes out, on the seldom occasions he does leave the house, in a trench coat or some article of clothing where he can pull the collar up high.
Porscha doesn't need to be that careful when walking around District 6, as it is not her face plastered on every available wall someone can get their hands on, but she does have her hands out of her pockets to spare her that extra second of reaction time. She's feeling several centimeters thicker around the waist, which will certainly not do, so she needs the exercise, and does not mind getting to stretch her legs further than what the studio can offer her, as if she has to look at her face for a moment longer today, she might rip out of her short tuffs of dark olive hair and stomp on it into the floor. Her skin glistens like a freshly applied coat of bronzer underneath the spotlights, heating her body up, so it is a refreshing moment when she steps out into the District 6 air, a surprisingly crisp and cool night for it being the middle of August. There are hardly as many people on the streets around 8 P.M than what is there just yesterday, on Saturday, at the same time, when Porscha sneaks out of the house to go sit in front of the Washington home, but what her father doesn't know about won't hurt her.
She needs a mother figure to go on these walks with her, and her father definitely is not soft enough for the menial aspects of the day, which is why it falls to her. Her father, the ever prestigious Datsun Watanabe, with his hovercraft building empire, working around cogs and the iron wheel, has lost his gentle touch, Porscha skirting away from his hands whenever he gets close to her. All she sees when looking at him, besides being the man who might've helped the Capitol win the rebellion, not that it is of any consequence to her, as if she's ever going to be reaped starting tomorrow - is the house of chipped paint on the walls, peeling wallpaper, and that burnt sienna door, in which it looks a bit yellow to Porscha as she's young and doesn't know what certain colors look like. It is a home built for her, by the mother she's never gotten to know.
The written means of death, written on a report Porscha finds when snooping in her father's work cabinet, one of many, is amniotic fluid embolism. Porscha has no idea what the words even mean, but all she recalls about that day is bumping into another filing cabinet, and on it, a machination of her father's falling to the floor and shattering into a thousand and one pieces. She's never seen someone so angry in her entire life, as her father comes rushing home from work, she being about seven or eight at this point, before Datsun Watanabe's hovercrafts take to the sky, drowning the districts in clouds of sulfur and ash, and when people are chanting for the dismemberment of one prominent figurehead after another, Porscha watches her father meld into his craftwork at an even faster, more alarming rate than normal.
Datsun shoves her into a closet, locking it for the remainder of the night, so she can sit there and think about what she's done - "It's an accident!" she cries out to him, but her words fall on deaf ears - and Porscha is about to burst into a ball of tears and stress as she thinks her father has forgotten about her when the door is wrenched open, he wraps his arms around her in a hug, Datsun smelling of liquor and oil, she wrinkling her nose in disgust, but he still doesn't actually apologize to her, Porscha remembers. That is when the dance lessons start, practically arriving at her doorstep the very next hour, actually, in the form of a private tutor, that her heart sank. Her father cared more about his man-made-machines than his own flesh and blood, but if she killed her mother like the mortality report claims it says, then she understands that sentiment.
Things have gotten slightly better, since the beginning of the end, between she and her father, but only because Porscha has broken through the surface level of dancing, where it has exploded into her art and passion, especially the practice of ballet dancing, in which thinking of it while out and about has Porscha go en pointe for a second, in the absolute wrong type of shoe. She stumbles a bit, a blush setting faintly on her cheeks, while she skirts through another crowded alley way, sucking her stomach in to do so. There's a bit more makeup on her face this time, her cheek sliding up against the side of one of the buildings she passes by, smudging some of it off, she cursing to herself, as that had been some expensive makeup. When she drops the groceries off at the house, leaving them for her father to deposit, which he most likely will not end up doing, it is off to another high rise building in the distance from the penthouse that the Watanabe family owns... her new dance instructor.
With the stigmatism of being a 'Watanabe', her instructor - the old one, Porscha has to correct herself - refuses to meet up with her for lessons anymore, in which Porscha sends a tactfully written letter that starts with, 'Dear Miss Cuntbag', and ended up with, "Sincerely, Porscha Watanabe, with my pointed foot shoved up your ass', the girl manages to find herself someone else to teach her, as long as the lessons are booked under a different name. She smiles to herself at the thought again, absentmindedly pointing her foot through the shoe she's wearing, as she oversteps a puddle. The expansive field of lights opens up again the closer she gets to the market, they being built in a tower like format rather than individual framed pieces along the sidewalk, blocks and blocks of lights stacked on top of each other.
Shifting the basket to her right hand, she waves her left hand at the motion sensor keeping her out of the gate, which opens up for her after a few seconds of reading her palm. Tattooed in an invisible ink on the inside of her thumb is a serial number given to all District 6 citizens, and only for citizens from Six, Porscha unaware if other districts are implementing the same kind of network, that allows each member of Six's society to enter business or places of need. The market is an open air one, which luckily has not been rained on for about three days or so, so everything she needs is fresh. Porscha picks a few heads of broccoli and asparagus first, bagging them up and dropping them into the cart. She's learned how to cook rather well, she'd say, from her father's absenteeism parenting, where the bathroom mirror and wall mirrors during her practices have become the training and parenting she needs, to the point where, if her father were to ever offer to cook a meal for them, Porscha is going straight to pinching herself in the arm to wake up from the dreadful nightmare. She can only imagine it, honestly.
Unlike a refrigerated market, which would be closer to the town square, a direction that Porscha is not headed towards in the slightest, the outdoors one only has two separate stations for frozen food, both being stand up racks that are dunked into an ice bath, and kept cool with an extension cord going into the back of the machine. She opens up one of the doors, reaching inside for a package of chicken breast. The chicken won't be for her, but for her father, since she's currently limiting her diet to being a vegetarian, to help keep her body as slim as possible, as ten hours of ballet a day - five in the morning, and five a night - is putting a strenuous hold on her body that Porscha has never seen before, but she's learning how to cope with it. On the left side of it, the chicken being the last door of the standalone freezer, is a rack, with a leg of lamb on it, the last in stock, Porscha standing there, basket in hand, biting down on her lip. Does her father like lamb more than chicken?
She doesn't get to go to the next line of thought, as her entire body seizes up with tension, the muscles in the back of her legs tightening in place as she can hear several pairs of footsteps approaching her, and they're definitely walking towards her. Porscha looks around for a second, seeing that there are no Peacekeepers near her or remotely close to her, so if it is a fight she needs to get herself into, she'll fight her way out of it.
Porscha turns around just in time to be face-to-face with someone she's never seen before, the guy looking to be about her age, maybe a year or two older, and she almost throws up in her mouth. God, he is hideous. She's never seen a more ugly specimen in the animal kingdom before. God would even be ashamed with his angels for having created such an abomination. The guy has shaggy dark brown hair, his face covered in acne from his forehead to his nose, wild blue eyes and a feral smile, and she doesn't even want to look at the rest of him. There's someone else behind the guy, but Porscha cannot get a good look at him.
"Excuse me," she tries butting in, to move past him, but the guy blocks her exit.
"You're the Watanabe girl, right? Datsun's little bitch?" the guy asks, pointing a finger at her.
She winches under the harsh language, not that she hasn't used it before, but Porscha still finds it unwelcoming all the same, the negative attention brought on her because of her father. If it is all the same to her, Porscha would rather not be choking underneath a collapsed, burning building if it is all the same to people, but arguing with them will not get her anywhere except potentially spat in the face, and her face flushed red and flustered; she has better things to do than sit here and talk to a back alley morphine addict.
"Can I help you?" Porscha asks him, tilting her head to the side some, keeping a faintly veiled frown on her face, disguising it as a smile, however. It is not like the person will truly know the difference, if the way he smells is any indicator to how intelligent he might be.
"You're Datsun Watanabe's kid, right?"
"Yes," she says, and she goes to take another step away from the guy, but this time he doesn't just point a finger at her, he slaps the basket in her hands to the ground, the broccoli, asparagus, and chicken she had picked up falling onto the concrete, rolling out of the basket. Porscha freezes in place for a second, eyes bugging out of her head. She's been in several tiffs with others around Six, mainly some girls her age, or the ones from school before she had to drop out, but it's been mostly name calling at this point. Not... this. After a second, Porscha swallows heavily, her response making her want to dig a hole and crawl into it to die. "That- that wasn't very nice."
The man threatening her scoffs, tilting his head to the side likewise, to mirror her - more like mock, Porscha supposes - before pushing Porscha back against the freezer. She hits her head on the top part of the handle to open the door, she placing a hand against the place of impact, but the man advances on her further. "Because of your father and his traitor ass, I gotta go to that reaping tomorrow," That guy is no older than eighteen? Porscha has seen it all. "And so does two of my younger brothers, and if any of us are reaped, I swear we're gonna fu-"
Porscha tries moving past him again, forgetting the basket, as she'll tell her father just to carpet bomb the market if all things need to be eradicated, like flushing poison out of a digestive tract, but the guy simply punches her in the face. She hits her head harder against the door handle this time, groaning in pain. The guy takes another step towards her, she looking to the left and right again to see if there's a Peacekeeper she could hail down quick enough without taking another hit, but there's no one in sight. She grits her teeth together, nostrils flaring.
She reaches out rather gracefully, given what years and years of ballet training will do, for the leg of lamb sitting on the empty rack to her right, the guy's left - Porscha almost considers calling him a gentleman, but that has her bark a short laugh - and wrenches it free from its spot. The man winds up another punch, going to insult her as she can see his lips moving, but then Porscha lets out a scream, as if she were attacking her father, the same man that has put her in this position to be harassed, the man whose locked her in a closet, the man who loves his hovercrafts more than her, and the man who stole her away from that house with the sienna colored door.
Porscha slams the frozen leg of lamb into the side of the man's head, and doesn't flinch when a coating of copper splashes out, coating her arms and her dress in a tide of vermillion.
So nothing like a 2:49 AM update, yeah? That was Chapter #6: Eve of the Reapings, ladies and gentlemen, the first of six intro chapters where we met four of the twenty-four tributes to be in this first Hunger Games. I wrote half of Jasper, all of Nokomis, all of Catalus, and all of Porscha in one sitting tonight, and I am exhausted, but I am so happy to have this out to you, and a lot earlier than I expected to have it done, but that's what inspiration after work does, right?
We were introduced to Jasper Overheart (D3M) by ParanoidSylph, Nokomis Yanaba (D10F) by Ripple237, Catalus Drachma (D1M) by Manny Siliezar, and Porscha Watanabe (D6F) by thornehub, all with very different and creative backstories, and we're just at the tip of the iceberg! Who was your favorite of the four? Next chapter, #7, will be another intro chapter with another four POVs - again two guys, two girls - and it is on the morning of the reapings, so, still not officially at the reapings yet but we will get there shortly after that. The four tributes I selected for that chapter will be Camilla Rodriguez (D9F), Ramses Boskov (D12M), Cassiopeia Grey (D11F), and Niklaus Peverell (D8M), with Chapter #7: False Sense of Security. I am very happy with how this chapter turned out, and I hope you guys liked it as well. It'll mean the world to get a review, to know your thoughts and whatnot, and I cannot wait to start working on the next chapter as soon as possible. As a forewarning, don't expect any chapter with tribute POVs to fall below 7k or 8k, I just don't see it happening.
I love you all so very much! Thanks for the support you constantly give me, it makes doing this so much more fun, and definitely worth it. Have a great day! Bye!
~ Paradigm