Hey everyone, Paradigm of Writing here with a brand new chapter of Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Death, Chapter #8: The Calling of the Culled. Last chapter we met four more tributes - Camilla Rodriguez [D9F], Ramses Boskov [D12M], Cassiopeia Grey [D11F], Niklaus Peverell [D8M], and this chapter we will be introduced to Orion Maythorpe (D4M) by jimster920, Kileigh Katsaras (D5F) by LiveFreeOrDie, Magnus Winterthorn (D2M) by Audmirable, and Nevaeh Davoli (D7F) by dyloccupy. Also, alongside that will be a Capitol-character focused POV in the form of President Emrick Israel watching the first ever Hunger Games reaping recap. Ladies and gentlemen, we are officially going to be underway in the 1st Hunger Games proceedings and onto train rides here shortly, halfway through intros... I cannot wait! Enjoy Chapter #8: The Calling of the Culled.
"It is rather for us here dedicated to the great task remaining before us, that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion." ~ Abraham Lincoln
Orion Maythorpe: District 4 Male P.O.V (18)
This is what a 'reaping' looks like, then, does it? For Orion Maythorpe, it looks like a crockpot full of shit, and he'll use the expletive as many times as he wants. The problem is that he says it aloud, receiving an elbow in the side for his rudeness. He raises an eyebrow, turning to face his best friend, Alistair, who shushes him, before dissipating in a cloud of sulfur and smoke. Orion rolls his eyes, wincing all the same while rubbing his side. The elbow hurt a lot, especially from someone he doesn't see all that often, but there is not a lot for him to pay attention to as he takes another slow step in the long line of others just like him to get checked into the register system for the 1st Hunger Games. What a weird name. Orion knows that the rebels lost and that they needed to be punished, but nothing had ever prepared him for the notion that it would be something like this, getting penned up and forced to kill other human beings.
The air is salty today, a gust of wind bringing in some tartness from the ocean, Orion able to see it just past one of the alleyways next to the Justice Building, a rolling sea that is calm down, a stilled blue water with a white foam froth cascading down onto his shoulders. It is how he is born, thrown into the sea and drowned underneath the waves, churning in the wake, to become fish food, when he's plucked out of the water by his father, as this is what is to make a Maythorpe strong. "Or is it cowering and calling out people who are actually friends?" he retorts to his father one day at breakfast just awhile ago, getting a slap to the face as a reward. That is how it goes down in the Maythorpe household. A hit to the face is not a punishment, for one's actions must always be met with a reaction.
The Peacekeepers at the front are dressed in a different color today than their normal white uniform, Orion's nose twitching as he sees that, not taking another step forward, the person behind him walking into him. He turns around to glare at them, the girl, who is a bit shorter than him, but very well built simply glaring back at him, a chill sliding down his back as he takes another step to match those in line. The uniforms of the guards taking their blood is a stark gray color, a different change to what he normally sees, and that would be red scarlet splatters all over the Peacekeeper's uniform, and Orion's grip holding onto the weapon. It is an all too familiar feel as he grips it tight, but him doing so causes the blood to flow weirdly in his leg, making Orion stumble on the next step.
"You do realize that if you're going to go forward and put yourself at risk," comes the voice of his best friend, Alistair, inside his head. Alistair, his life and his rock, the one to make him see straight in the night sky, pointing out the constellations on the beach with their arms underneath each other, and if he laughed, a sea shanty laugh full of mirth and joy, Orion looks over at him, eyes glistening like a sea spray. "You cannot afford to look like a liability out here, or everyone will count you out," Orion feels a pressure build on his shoulders, dark hands and light blonde hair tickling the back of his neck. "Are you a liability, Orion?"
"No," he responds back, his voice strong, but even so, his knees knock together. The world is asking him to do a big favor... he's still not sure he can do it.
"Just imagine the look on your parents' faces..." Alistair whispers, leaving him alone in the same cloud of sulfur and smoke.
Orion keeps his gaze fixated on the sea. A lot has happened on that beach, too many good things and too many bad things. A salty breeze blows through the crowd again, his short cut brown hair blowing up and down in the breeze like a palm tree reed. He scratches down on his leg, pale skin getting tanner every day he sits out in the sun, as there isn't too much to do any more with him dropping out of school, his parents wanting him out of the house since he 'smells'. "It's not actually a stench," his father, Wesley, says, putting his glasses down on the kitchen table, fingers peeling open a banana shortly afterwards. "It's just... you, son. And what you stand for."
"What?" Orion raises an eyebrow. "Humanity?"
The banana peel is thrown into his face, causing his face to blotch up in red, puffy spots. Irritations that cause Orion to scratch his face constantly all day while lying out, sunbathing, or tossing rocks into the sea, watching them skip along the water. That is normally when Alistair will stop by to visit, hovering just over his shoulder, apologizing for something, but Orion never really listens anymore. Sorry for being poor. Sorry for dragging you into this mess. Sorry that your parents are total dicks. Sorry that I left you alone on this Earth. It is the last comment that always has Orion turning around to scream at the spot where no one is there. No one has left him, and he is not dragged into anyone's mess for caring. When the hammer falls that Districts 1 and 2 are leaving the rebellion, or as President Emrick calls it 'the good for the nation', Orion nearly breaks the TV hanging up in his living room, his father having to grab him and pin him down onto the couch while he shouts into the leather.
He nearly swallows up a cushion in his rage, running a hand through his hair, the scar on his left leg ripping and cascading in pain, causing white hot tears to prickle at his eyes as he sinks down onto the carpet, listening numbly just a few weeks later as the other districts surrender, and at the punishment given to them... one young man and woman between the ages of twelve and eighteen to be selected in each district for the honor of fighting and killing each other in the Capitol, once a year, henceforth known as the Hunger Games. A punishment on innocents, a punishment he did not deserve, a punishment that people like Alistair and his family did not deserve. Orion rushes out onto the beach, even grabbing a banana from the kitchen stand, wading four feet into the water where it is just up to mid chest, plucking the banana peel off and covering it all over his skin.
It is his parents that call him back ashore, Wesley undoing his watch and his tie as he swims after Orion, the kid beginning to paddle out, his hands scooping up into the dark water, hearing the beginnings of a thunderstorm on the air, watching as lightning bolts cascade into the ocean, before he plunges himself downwards into the surf, his father dragging him out kicking and screaming, where he even hits his father in the face, threatening to jump back into the water if the world is to be as cruel as it is.
A Peacekeeper calls him forward, the girl that had bumped into him pushing him forward, Orion needing to steady himself so he didn't collide with the table.
"Next," the Peacekeeper drones on, he unable to see them through their mask, behind their visor, but it doesn't matter. He hates them. He hates every single one of them, as he looks about at the Capitol banners waving in the wind, that sea brine on his tongue landing like a droplet of battery acid to see the deep dark red and gold color combination on the flag. The Peacekeeper holds out their hand, it sounding like a male voice, Orion holding out his wrist, the Peacekeeper latching onto it. The leather on his exposed wrist feels like someone rubbed a banana up and down it, or the tearing of his flesh when the wild mutt latches down onto his thigh, ripping away flesh like he is eating a rib, and then it is Alistair's voice calling him while standing on stage, the same type of leather gripping him by the shoulders, forcing him down to his knees...
Orion winces as the needle slides into the fingerprint bulb on his pointer finger of his right hand, his hand being guided down onto a sheet where his blooded fingerprint is left on record forever. "If they take blood from you, you take some back, Orion!" Alistair's voice screeches in his ear like he's right there, Orion jerking in surprise, the needle still in his skin as it slices through his finger. The pain is instantaneous, he gripping onto the edge of the table, the Peacekeeper looking up at him.
"Kid, it's just a droplet of blood," the soldier chastises him, Orion looking into the visor to only see his reflection, his eyebrows brought together in frustration, anger starting to lace his features. It has been a bad morning, where his parents chide about the unlucky kid that'll be getting chosen to die, Orion going down to the water early to throw rocks into the sea, a brief moment passing by in his head to jump back into the surf. Wesley has a business meeting to go to, and his mother, Trisha would be staying in bed, surrounded by silk and satin sheets, lounging around their two story house. They wouldn't notice, they probably wouldn't care, and his father is not there to save him now, but no, he does not go racing into the surf. Instead he stays behind to be roped off like a piece of cattle, getting his finger sliced open. "Ask one of the others for a rag for the hand," the Peacekeeper adds in disgust, it evident on their voice. "You're getting blood all over the table, kid."
He wrenches his hand back to his side. If his father were to see his behavior, he'd probably be hit upside the head, for a Maythorpe does not act disrespectful to people in public, which would have Orion snort and say that Peacekeepers aren't people, just cowards in full metal plating, for Orion is very, very respectful to those he believe deserve it. None of these people deserve it, he stepping away from the table, directed by a Peacekeeper sending the boys on one side of the stage - stage right, from the audience perspective, and where he's roped up at the front of the line, as an eighteen year old - his eyes roaming over all those gathered.
Had it been any of the soldiers here who gave the command? Had it been one of those cowards in white to give the order with the hail of gunfire that brings Alistair and Orion's heart to its knees?
He cannot hit his father anymore, though he thinks about it. They're the ones who saved him, at one point, no matter how wrong it is. Orion would be on that stage too if it is not for Wesley and Trisha's interference, Orion realizing after the fact with a locked jaw, rage simmering just underneath his palms, his body temperature raising by a few degrees. Had his parents not said anything, he'd have a bullet in his skull too, and who'd be there to save the life of whichever unlucky sap is selected?
Orion bites on the inside of his cheek as he steps into place, just a few rows away from the stage, looking up to where the nation's future will be decided. It is not Alistair up there, but a man who must be at least in his fifties and grayed everywhere, the man holding a tablet in his hands, a microphone in the center of stage. He - Orion, that is - is early to the reaping, and there's still at least another fifteen minutes before everyone will get situated, he knowing that the cameras will spot him immediately with his tall stature, and athletic build. Wesley squeezes his shoulders, saying that someone - a girl, preferably, as that is what the Maythorpe family needs, a legacy and a continued line - will be clawing at the door to get into Orion's pants, causing him to blush.
His mind goes back to that date, that moment in front of the mirror in the morning, his palms oily and sweaty from the mission he had gone on last night, the troublesome thoughts clouding his mind from thinking clearly, and Orion, looking at the strange gentleman on stage, causes his mouth to curl into a smile.
Let the Maythorpe line continue alright, but if the world sets its die up correctly, it'll no longer be resting on Orion's shoulders.
He has work to do.
Kileigh Katsaras: District 5 Female P.O.V (17)
The bit of soreness in her finger is still vibrating from when the Peacekeeper stuck the needle in, it being a constant drumming pressure that radiates down the underside of her hand, causing her palms to twitch. She constantly keeps looking down at it, seeing the scab that is starting to build over the stitched part. It is not necessarily violent, the Peacekeeper that stuck her had not done it in a way for it be to harmful or aggressive, but it comes across as that, seventeen year-old Kileigh Katsaras holding her hand close to her chest, rubbing her other fingers together to try and sooth the pain that blossoms across her body. It is a hot day out in Five today, Kileigh wiping away sweat with the back of her hand. She finds it strange that she's being bothered by the heat, for the months spent outside beyond the fence's lining seems to have done nothing to her character.
Kileigh looks behind her warily, surrounded by strangers that she does not recognize, and fortunately they do not recognize her either. Some girl in the seventeen year-old section pushes a sixteen year-old, the girl getting pushed raising her voice, before vaulting over the roped line that is supposed to separate them, Kileigh's face blanching as she turns around. No violence. Violence is detestable. Violence is the scourge of mankind onto nations, and nations with their violence are the scourge onto mankind. Pacifist. Kileigh still has trouble fully pronouncing the word, a word that her parents Leon and Mora teach her, a dictionary placed in front of her while her father lowers his spectacles down the bridge of his nose. A pacifist is someone who is against violence, against any kind of violence, something her parents wrinkle their noses at, or worse, vomit at the sight of, yet Kileigh forces herself to just look the other way, to turn the cheek.
Violence only seeks out those who wish to pursue it or desire it. Kileigh desires no such thing, simply desiring the fact to live and be healthy, the fact that she no longer needs to break walnuts open with a rock, or dive into a stream naked, catching a fish with her bare hands at the expensive of developing hypothermia, because the sun is not strong enough yet to fully dry out her clothes. Kileigh rubs her thumb over the prickled spot of skin, smearing the scab off and rolling the blood that begins to bead out onto her thumb. It is a soothing experience, to feel herself bleed, but she tries to not do it too often, for that often means pursuing the violence, and she wishes to stay away from violence as far and as best as she can. She tugs at her ponytail of dark chestnut brown hair, the ponytail reaching her mid back absentmindedly, trying to distract herself from the sounds of the fighting girls, the Peacekeepers starting to get involved as she can barely make out the heavy clomping of their boots.
On stage, there must be a Capitolite standing in the center of the stage, holding onto some sort of black device that to Kileigh looks like a tablet of some kind, seeing the woman who arrives early by train – her parents commentate on the strange appearance over their scrambled eggs – holding onto it and tapping it ever so often over and over again. A microphone stand is placed in front of the woman, she in a long, flowing yellow dress – similar to Kileigh's actually, she realizes with stunning clarity, looking down at herself in an equally shaded floral design – with her blonde hair built up to touch the sky.
"That just means she thinks she's closer to the heavens," her mother Nora, laughs while milling through her eggs, on the notice about the woman's hair.
Kileigh keeps her focus solely narrowed on stage, trying to not look over at the screens that have been erected overnight, tall structures made entirely of steel beams, the screens tied to the poles, they being at least ten to twenty feet tall, she looking up at the one on the far right while covering her face with her hand. She has an idea of what is going to be put there, but it doesn't matter, she more than likely will not watch. The sound of sobbing hits her in the ears from just behind her, a cold shiver taking hold of Kileigh, she biting down on the inside of her cheek to keep her from turning around and yelling.
She hates yelling. Yelling means that she's resorted to violence.
The girl can still recall what it felt like, the terror that shoots through her veins when the Molotov cocktail breaks through her bedroom window, setting her curtains ablaze, setting the end tail of her blanket ablaze as Kileigh screams, kicking it away. She runs out of her bedroom, terrified, and then there's another Molotov breaking through her parent's bathroom, that getting them to awake as an inferno begins to ripple through the house.
Her father scoops Kileigh into his arms, even though she is just under his height and he isn't that strong, he does it as his little girl is scared, she resting her face into his neck as they break for the back door, running by someone who tries scooping them up into their grasps, her mother screeching out a warning cry of panic, though Kileigh knows her mother would never try to do anything.
Violence is physically reprehensible. She can still hear what the people had been screaming at them as they ran in their nightclothes with just one sole destination in mind: to the fence, to the fence, to the fence.
"I know what you did…" Kileigh mutters under her breath. "We all know what you did, you treasonous pigs!" The words are sulfuric acid on her tongue, she grimacing in pain as she swallows down the angry words, the violent words while the smell of smoke still hits her months and months later.
The woods did not smell like that, of burning concrete and shattered glass, but of roses and dandelions and the sound of a trickling waterfall, or the constant echoing of rain droplets hitting the cave's floor, her shoes sliding onto the muck.
Kileigh is jarred out of the dream, the taste of fresh spring water coating her teeth, when the Capitolite woman on stage makes her way to the microphone, setting her tablet aside onto the table that is next to her, a rather uninspired thing that is brown in color and has three legs. She'll never understand why people do not know how to operate a microphone, for anytime someone is to hit it, they'll be met with the harsh feedback and resistance, a sharp shill reverberating against the stone buildings of the district town square.
"Good morning!" the woman calls out from her podium, Kileigh resisting the urge to roll her eyes. There is nothing good about this morning, nothing good at all. She understands, she truthfully does understand, that the people who lost the war, as awful and terrible as it is to the fact that it happened in the first place, must be punished… but she doesn't see the necessity of it. How does instilling more violence help end violence? There's no response to the woman's greeting, the Capitolite resting her hand on a hip, on that stupid yellow dress, bright green eyes scowled in disappointment. "What kind of greeting is that, District 5? Good morning!"
"Good morning, you twat," Kileigh says in her head, while most of the other teenagers her age, out of common courtesy to speak to their elders – Even the ones that try to kill us? It is a question Kileigh has always wanted to ask – respond back, but it is nothing more than a slight hum. For everyone's sake, Kileigh hopes that the woman doesn't wind up for Round Two.
"Why, thank you District 5!" the lady giggles, clasping her hands together. Kileigh counts the number of bracelets that she's wearing, each one a different shade of yellow, a myriad of sunflower and sunbursts, Kileigh's eyes starting to rattle in her skull. "My name is Ginger Castle, and I am your escort for District 5!" she claps to herself, and no one joins in. If her parents were here to see this… Kileigh knows they'd be rolling on the floor, laughing. "As escort, my title means I will be joining whichever one of you lucky men and lucky girls to the Capitol, to act as your caretaker and your overseer before the Games begin!" Ginger gestures to the tablet resting on the stool. "For what is called the Reaping, I have a tablet here. You all should've signed in with the lovely Peacekeepers at the front before getting into position. I have a system for the girls and a system for the boys. I will tap 'select' here on this tablet, and eventually it'll show a name on the screen. That young lady and gentleman must come up here and stand by me to be District 5's first ever tributes!" Ginger is practically bouncing on her heels. "Now, before I make the reaping selection, I have a video to show you, brought all the way to the Capitol…" and the woman gestures up towards both silver screens on either side of her.
Kileigh does not watch the video, for she knows exactly what'll be said on it. It is sent accidentally – someone definitely lost their head over that mistake – to all the power companies in Five, to all the power plant workers, for the Capitol wishes to ensure that, in case there be an outage somewhere in the districts via a storm or other methods, that the train is kept rolling for the two minute video. She's seen it. Her father has seen it. Her mother has seen it.
Something about there being a horrible war tearing the nation apart, that Kileigh is able to understand and sympathize with. Orphans without their mothers and fathers, siblings who lose their Siamese twin, animals wandering around with no owners… but something is supposed to rise out of the ashes – "Like an erection?" Kileigh says with a frown, when discussing the video with her parents – and that rising statue is the Capitol. The Capitol rises up, takes charge – "Massacres," Kileigh corrects in her head, as the video plays that particular word, a male voice that she does not recognize speaking out the subtitles shown in the bottom crawl – and has decided, for the violence to never be repeated again, that the district will offer up one young man and one young woman to fight to the death.
A fight to the death.
Kileigh's heartbeat picks up in her chest as the video ends, it being a man holding up a sword, standing on a rock with the sunlight basking onto his body, she staring at the end of the sword, there being, just as imperceptible as most things are, a droplet of something red sliding off screen. Blood, which means violence, death… which means violence.
The video ends, and there's some scattered light applause from the Peacekeepers standing around keeping guard, but no one in the audience is, Kileigh taking a look around to only see angry faces, to see grim faces staring up at Ginger Castle, the complete bozo.
She claps her hands together excitedly as the silver screens go dark, replaced by a series of numbers in the center of the screen. "Oh, wasn't that exciting? I wish I could spend more time on it, but I must get down to selecting the names. I promise you all, this is entirely random, an algorithm choosing whichever name to display on the screen. Should you be selected, there is a possibility someone can volunteer to take your place, but I don't think any of you are that stupid…" Ginger laughs, there being the sound of her licking her lips riding the soundwaves across the district. "As usual, ladies first."
Kileigh closes her eyes, needing to tear her gaze away from the screen, she counting in her head. One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. What even is a Mississippi?
She only gets to Four Mississippi when Ginger is at the microphone screaming as loud as she can, "Kileigh Katsaras, 17!"
Kileigh's eyes snap open, her entire body going numb.
That- that's her name. That's her name on the screen, the girl tearing her gaze away from the ground to the silver screens, where as clear as the sky is blue, Kileigh sees her own name in a blocky emerald green font displayed upon the screen.
She's not sure if the scream she hears is one from the past or one from the present.
All Kileigh knows is that she's screaming.
A pacifist going into a death match?
At what point does the philosopher turn into a killer?
Magnus Winterthorn: District 2 Male P.O.V (18)
That is who will be joining him in the Hunger Games then, hmm? He frowns at her, knitting his brow together as he squints, before shrugging. She doesn't look like much, and she certainly didn't sound like much by her reaction. He stands there, as the escort known as Merida drones on and on about the honor of being in District 2, where District 2 is the first to surrender - "We didn't surrender. We gave up," he scowls into her dinner plate, stabbing his steak with a knife, leaving the handle upright, the cutlery in his meat - and that means that the people from Two are the ones most loyal to the Capitol, and therefore should be getting the easiest time in the arena, eighteen year-old Magnus rolling his eyes all the while. Having to stand in the spots where soldiers like him have fallen and died, to have their blood stains be scrubbed away by Avoxes who are on their hands and knees... the disrespect makes his blood boil.
What causes his blood to boil even moreso as he stands there is the way some of the district claps after the woman's words, her hair curly and a bright fluorescent blue on the gray backdrop of the Justice Building, but that is not who Magnus is staring at; his line of sight is directly towards the mayor, the slimy coward who is standing there up against the side of the building, gaze observing the crowd of the corralled twelve to eighteen year-olds, hands behind his back; Magnus wants to put his hands at the man's throat instead, for all he's done, it is the least he could do, and the least the traitor deserves. Magnus recalls what it looked like, sitting on one of the hills when the Capitol bombers came through and dropped fire bombs on the poorest section of District 2, just a half mile of shacks and a rundown water well, where he never steps foot onto that part of town; it is the punishment that the district must suffer through for their treason, but all it does is make Magnus even more upset.
No one cares about that side of District 2, no one gave a rat's ass about the few poor beggars who'd lie on a mat in front of the quarries begging for spare change, or the little kid with no parents or other siblings that's a runaway from the Peacekeepers, choking on the dust created by the bulldozers moving stones about. The black pillar of smoke settles in the sky long enough for people to take notice, but then after that, they go about their business, but Magnus finds himself staying there, standing there in the center of town and looking in the direction where the smoke plume would be should it still exist. The mayor speaks out about the deaths one day, where a single camera films him from his office, something or other about how the district needs to come together in this tough time to mourn the dead, those who lost their lives in the arena... but there's a kicker.
"For all the soldiers who lost their lives defending us against the rebels who would have come to take our freedoms away, we thank you and we honor you," Magnus mumbles under his breath as the blue haired woman continues speaking about something or other, but he's lost interest, his interest has died. It is not what the video that just played on the silver screens had talked about, but of war and casualties and losses and other things that make Magnus nearly lose his lunch, but these are brand new shoes he's wearing so he's not about to hurl onto them. He lifts his head up to the screen, then, when the escort mentions that a selection will be made, and the female tribute for District 2 will be selected, everyone holding in their breath collectively, Magnus's arms prickling with goosebumps.
Who will he be accompanying?
The names are in a blocky kind of font on the projectors as the escort taps on the tablet in their hand, the names scrolling through in a pattern from left to right, occasionally pausing on one, to flit to the next one immediately, Magnus looking over at the collected group of girls for their reaction, seeing how some were not even looking at the screen, heads titled down to the ground, or some in the front row keeping their eye squarely on the ball, some glaring at the projection, before there's a soft little ding which echoes around the town square, Magnus tightening his grip around the rope he's found himself standing up against when he's directed into the pen. The name on the screen gets a few gasps, an isolated clap here or there, Magnus just having the time to read Portia Beninblade, 18, when the escort also calls the girl out on stage.
And... there she is. Magnus tries to suppress the smirk as he hears the girl kicking and screaming out of a Peacekeeper's grip who comes rushing over to snatch her up from the back side of the district.
The girl kicks and screams her way up the entire time, a babble of protest about all she has done for the district, all her parents have done for the district and this is how she is repaid? The escort turns to her to say something else, Portia hitting the woman in the arm, causing her to drop the microphone, which rolls a bit on the stage, making a terrible wave of sound feedback, causing Magnus to wince and cover his ears for a moment.
He narrows his gaze at her, even though Portia – he believes that to be her name, but when he looks up at the screens, it's already changed to show the list of male names, not that it'd matter, of course – is looking at the stage, huffing to herself, nostrils flaring. Magnus gets to the reaping early, to put himself on stage as quick as need be while he hangs on the fringes of the roped off sections. His finger vibrates still with the prick of the needle, he thinking briefly, very briefly, to smear his hand all over the visor of the Peacekeeper who does the job, but he stays his hand. One of the few times he's ever stayed his hand, Magnus often times forgetting himself and rushing headlong into whatever needs to be done.
Doing what needs to be done has always meant that he rushes to the front of the line to sign up for the war. Magnus steps away from the house to go and sit in the shade underneath one of the water towers, watching the construction of the new District 2 facility called the Nut out in the distance, the rebellion having only been a week old at this point, District 2 still 'undecided' in who they were going to support.
"If we support anyone else but Thirteen, I'll eat my shoes," Magnus whispers to no one in particular at the dinner table, which earns him an elbow, a disapproving glance from his mother, her hands heavy and chalky from her work in the stonemason business.
"We're building the Nut," his mother, Alice, says, Magnus's younger sister Madeline snorting into her peas. "Let that be your answer, Magnus."
He knows what his answer is, when he signs up for the rebels and demands he fight for them despite being a few years younger than the requirement, but Magnus pounds his fist into the table and goes by day after day after day after day to prove them wrong; he will not take no for an answer, not right now, not yet when there are lives on the line, his inclusion possible to sway the tide of battle. He decides to keep it a secret from his mother, seeing the loss in her eyes, the searching gaze when she sees him lifting weights in the backyard on his seventeenth birthday, a bit of bulk starting to form in his body, the finality being when he goes to shave his head: the sign of a soldier.
All of that for nothing, when District 2 announces their surrender, that they've seen the light, and Magnus is screaming at the top of his lungs, ripping plants out by their roots, and then, as he stares at the screen where President Emrick Israel makes his announcement about the Hunger Games, Magnus knows. He knows what he must do.
He knows what must be done, not just for the old man he sees get shot in the head by a Peacekeeper the day after Cain Passionia's son is killed, not just for his father who is told to have fallen off a work ladder the wrong way with his head turning at a ninety degree angle. Not just for the people bombed out in the poorest side of the district, the people who 'had it coming.'
Merida smirks something haughtily at Portia, clicking on her tablet for the male names to appear. He is not paying attention to them anymore, still looking at the girl who is in a slump on stage, she placing her hands on the ground before slowly rising to her feet, Merida back at the microphone. Slate Coleman, 18, is the name on the screen, but the kid will never have to experience what the Hunger Games might be, with their unknown territory status.
Magnus raises his hand high as he can, filling his lungs with air before shouting as loud as he possibly could, pride surging in his voice, "I volunteer!"
Murmurs of dissent and surprise flit through the crowd, Magnus ducking underneath the rope that couldn't even keep an ant at bay, jogging up to the stage. He tries to keep a smirk on his face, eyes locking with Portia, the girl glaring at him as he makes it up to the pinnacle of spotlight. She's just jealous, he figures, for no one volunteered for her. Why would anyone volunteer for a brat who acts like that when they're selected?
Can someone volunteer for a volunteer?
Merida raises her eyebrows together, her lipstick the same nasty shade of cerulean blue, holding the microphone to his face. "And who might you be, dear?"
Magnus turns his head to find the camera, one of them at the very least, the cameras all giving a live feed to Panem. His family back at home are seeing this, the president is seeing this, his father's corpse might be seeing this… he wants everyone to see this.
"I'm Magnus Winterthorn," he grins cheekily. "I've come to win."
Nevaeh Davoli: District 7 Female P.O.V (17)
What are the chances again? Six potential slots to be selected out of... even thinking about how that number can go makes her head spin, for that is too much to process at one time. Seventeen year-old Nevaeh Davoli - backwards for Heaven, she thinks to herself, anytime she reminds herself what her name is, as this is no heaven that she is living in, except trapped under the cells in Hell - sits numbly on one of the furnished couches in the Justice Building, she rubbing her palms back and forth on her pants, a sheen dark black thing that her mother picks out as she feels it is her personal treat to dress her girl up for the slaughter. But no, she never expects it to be... to be her. Amos would know what to do, in this instance. He'd strongarm himself though the Justice Building, pick up his sister and throw her over his shoulder, and make for the electrified fence, running and running until-
"Oh, wait, that's right," Nevaeh says out loud, cutting off the vision with a sarcastic tone, "He's dead and rotting in the ground, and soon you will be too."
The biggest disappointment of it all, for her, as she stands there when her name appears on the screen, watching it blip by a few times in that emerald green text, before landing on hers, is the fact that she walks up to the stage, shaking and trembling like some leaf blowing in the wind, like she had ripped away by a strong gust on one of the ponderosa trees out in the forest. She stands there, next to that musky old woman who must not know what perfume is, looking at those in the district, all those girls who are looking at her with wide eyes where not one of them steps forward to valiantly save her own life. Nevaeh looks at them back, glaring, but still shaking, even when the woman selects her district partner, Sylvan Adello, a fourteen year-old who moves in a strange robotic form, but no one sacrifices their live on the line for him either, and they shake hands, the kid not just shaking like she is, but half stuck between frozen and trembling back and forth like he's made of old, rustic parts.
Nevaeh rushes to the window first thing when she's placed in the room, which is rather lush and colorful, but is not where she wants to be right now. Working out underneath the trees and all of their shade sounds much more fun right about now, her hands gripping the hilt of an axe as she chops into the wood. Whenever she tells any man willing to listen to her that she works in the forests, she's simply laughed at, Nevaeh putting her hands on her hips as one reaction, the other normally being her smacking the glass of whatever drink is in the man's hand and onto the floor, bolting from the scene before he has the chance to grab her by the hair and rip her down onto the ground. Her dark skin makes her stand out in a crowd, her curly dark hair even moreso against all the bright redheads and blondes, or sandy browns that mill about, whereas her darkness is a beacon in the brightness, singling her out immediately.
She knows that no one down in the audience, a place where she's standing just moments before, is going to be envious of her, and if they are, they better raise their hands and raise their voices, crying out the extra magic words of "I volunteer!" But it never comes, and Sylvan is crying despite his rigidness, and Nevaeh is surprised she's not crying either. This is not how things were supposed to go. She's supposed to survive both reapings, live to the ripe old age of ninety-five and be sitting in a rocking chair on a porch with her love holding onto her hand, only going to die when she gets up from her seat to water a few azaleas sticking up out of the ground. That is the future she sees for herself, but that is not the future she is going to get, is it? Her future will be someone's sword in her gut as the person falls from the heavens, if she's lucky enough. A quick death.
"Amos's death wasn't quick," a little voice inside her head tells her.
"Shut up," she hisses, out loud, getting up from the cushioned chair, she feeling her body start to morph into it, instead going back to the window sill, the curtains drawn back, bringing in the bright sun onto the paisley pattern on the floor. She brushes her foot over one of the designs, going down in a circular pattern, tilting her head to the side. Will her body, when it succumbs to the decay, be absorbed into the ground like that, with her knees brought to her chest in the fetal position? A shudder slides down her back. That is how Amos went, she believes. Nevaeh actually does not know, truthfully. Her parents won't tell her, they do not have the gall to tell her how her own brother died when he went off to fight in the rebellion. She's turned the entire house up and down trying to find the slip of paper that has his name on it, but she never finds it. She asks them if they had it burned, but she's never given an answer.
Nevaeh rests her elbows on the windowsill, looking out from the second story window down to the square. It is like a birds-eye view from up here, even if it just about ten feet or so, but from a higher height than she is used to, to Nevaeh, it is like she is walking along on a tightrope across a wide chasm. She'd be all alone up there, as she normally prefers to be alone. At work, in the forests, she's the only one in a certain section of the woods, chopping away at the smaller trees given to her, even though she is just as capable as the other men wielding axes who are around her height. She's forming muscle, but her foreman looks down at her, sweat droplets looking like coagulated messes of syrup that bead down his nose, where his grubby, gloved fingers point in the direction of where she's working, her heart falling down into the pit of her stomach. The ladies her age, the few that are there, and even the older women who could lob an axe into a tree without any problem, or cutting down saplings. Saplings.
Her parents always wonder why she is not making enough money to firmly help support the family, her parents getting roped into the governmental private sector and working with the thing called tesserae, something that has her parents coming back from work every night in tears when they tell about how many parents or little twelve year-olds with bucktoothed grins that cannot even see above the counter to talk to them come by, putting their name on the list, but Nevaeh has seen the rations box that the Peacekeepers pick the supplies from... people are sacrificing themselves and their kids for a little bit of meager food... adding three more names to the pot. Nevaeh scratches at her throat, going back to sit down on the plush couch. No one should put their name into the pot more than they need to.
She never had to apply for tesserae, her parents forbid it with a hand on her shoulder while at the dinner table.
"We are lucky," her father tells her, his voice stern and strong. He is the first voice she's heard all day, actually, spending most of her time down in the woods, chopping, chopping, chopping away, as if she is hacking off limbs of the Peacekeeper scum that killed-
"Amos wasn't lucky…" she whispers to him, her parents flashing a stern glare her way. She is forbidden to say that name in their presence, but Nevaeh doesn't care, not when her flesh and blood is rotting in the ground, a secret heavy on his heart and he passes away from it before he is able to spread the truth. The truth he died for.
"We've talked about this," Nevaeh's mother chimes in, taking a seat next to her father. Both of her parents are dark-skinned beauties as well, she looking away and staring at a placement. "You can't talk about him with what's going on out there. With what's happened, it could all fall back on us and-"
"Well, maybe it should!" Nevaeh screams at them, pushing herself away from the table, huffing heavily as she leaves the trapped inside world of her house and into the cold, terrifying outside world. She sinks to her knees in the front yard, her bare skin digging into the mud, creating holes as sludge rises up and over her body, covering her in a darker sheen of terror, tears muddling together with rain drops as they slide down her face.
He's her everything. Amos Davoli, her older brother, and dead at twenty-five years old, she always hiding in his shadow, but she didn't mind. Being in his shadow meant he provided escape from the sun; he provides the shade for her that keeps her sunflowers from dying when the heat beat downs on them from above. He's the one to put an axe in her hand and tell her to swing with all of her might, she doing it so hard to the point that a rivet of shock slides up down her arms as the blade connects with the wood, her arms vibrating under protest to the point where she drops the weapon.
His chuckle is everything, smoky and filled with cedar, rumbling like wood shavings, fingers twisting in his beard, a bushy one with hints of silver and white running through them, added paint collections to make him stand out in the fields while he sings his way through an entire orchard. His chuckle is everything, even when the bombs fall down, even when her parents say that they will not join the rebellion, and his laugh when he waves goodbye to her on the back of a pick-up truck, a cap in his hand, automatic gun in the other…
Nevaeh's eyes lose focus, there being a knock at the door, back to the real world, to the real world where Amos is a jar of tar sitting on someone's shelf, knocking it over and spilling his essence of life onto the ground. The world and her life is normal before the bombs came, before Thirteen decided to slit someone's throat open from ear-to-ear… she looks away from the carpet, still staring at the part that would be her morphed body sinking into the design. Her eyes glance up to the doorway, there being a familiar dark hand clenching onto the gilded knob.
"Mom! Dad!" she calls out, getting to her feet, going to rush towards them.
"Nevaeh!" her mother yells, but Nevaeh doesn't get to take another step closer.
A grim gloved hand smacks itself onto her mother's wrist, yanking the woman back away from the door, Nevaeh's eyes widening, rushing forward to see the commotion. Someone enters the room, the shock knocking her back as she falls onto the floor, looking up at a Peacekeeper, his face hidden by his visor, the world grim and black from where she's laying down. Looking past him, she can see her mother struggling in the grip of a Peacekeeper trying to wrench her out of the door and back onto the front steps.
"Rebel scum aren't allowed any visitors!"
No! NO! Nevaeh tries to scream, but the Peacekeeper in her room simply kicks her in the side instead, shortly after the one out the room yells 'rebel scum', Nevaeh howling in pain, twisting in agony on the carpet, on the same spot in the fetal position, the Peacekeeper's boot connecting squarely against her body again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again.
She has lost count after seven times how many times she is kicked.
She wants to scream, she wants to yell out that the only rebel scum in her entire life has been her brother, but Nevaeh simply swallows her tongue, hearing her mother's cries – her father must be incapable of leaving the office, he might not even know what has happened to her – when they're silenced forever, the last kick to her side turning her vision white, it hurting and impossible to roll over onto her stomach.
Again, and again, and again, and again.
All Nevaeh can think of is wondering of one comment…
"Rebel scum…" the Peacekeeper's words echo in her head, her own laced with panicked thoughts. No one knows about that, no one knows what she did, what her parents did, what her parents did. If no one knows… then how does someone?
Emrick Israel: President of Panem P.O.V
At the age that Emrick is starting to reach, he is finding it harder and harder to find things to be excited about, and he hopes it doesn't sound too morbid in his head that he is excited about sitting down and watching the Reaping Recap, the recap of the very first selected tributes from each district for the first ever Hunger Games. He makes a note from the logs that come back in that seven of the twelve escorts on stage forget to include the word 'Annual', which he will certainly reprimand them for, but not now, for he's about to witness history occur in front of his very eyes. "History you started," he thinks to himself, a smile dancing on his lips. History he started with a single stroke of his feather quill pen, with his right foot pressed down on the necks of the all the District mayors before he gave the order to have them all executed.
He is a godly man, doing godly work.
He sits down in front of the flat screen television draped along the far right side of his office, hands gripping onto the leather arms, leaning back with a sigh. Emrick reaches over to the table sitting next to him, picking up the glass of water and taking a sip, a chill going down his stomach cavity. Cain is sitting next to him on the couch, pushing all the pillows to the floor, someone whose never enjoyed pillows for an odd reason. Head Peacekeeper Lydia Wickervein is dressed in her uniform, helmet taken off and kept by her side as she holds it against her hip, she stepping aside so the last person, the Mutations Designer Nyria Kirchner could take her seat. As she sits down next to Cain on the couch, her head turned to make sure she doesn't sit on something beyond the leather, Emrick sees his vice president's face flicker with disgust momentarily. Emrick raises an eyebrow in piqued curiosity, but he simply takes another sip of his water.
Ever the master of subtlety, so he claims.
"You have the remote, Mr. President," Cain says, after straightening out his jacket, sitting with his legs crossed over another. Emrick raises both eyebrows this time, smiling slightly. There would be an Avox with him in his office, but he has never found them to be all that useful or needed in his services, as there are plenty of other Peacekeepers and servants to help their daily needs. It is one of Cain's other brilliant ideas, well, actually one of Cain's predecessors who came up with the idea of an Avox and Emrick has not signed any legislature to get rid of the practice, but there are seldom any more people being made into Avoxes. Treason in the Capitol during the Dark Days did not result in someone losing their tongue, but in losing their life, a life he happily would take himself.
"I don't demand much of them," he tells Lydia one evening when she's by his side, gun trained on all the doorways while he relaxes in his office, the quilled pen in his hand spilling ink onto a piece of parchment paper that he's supposed to be signing. "I just demand blind loyalty."
Emrick grabs the remote, turning it on, and there only ever is one true channel in the Capitol TV networks airing anything, it being station 00, the face of Panem's PR representative, Richmond Anvil, filling the screen. Out of the corner of his eye, Emrick can see Cain purse his lips at the sight of him using the remote, but once more he holds his tongue. If the President is unable to do the simple task of getting himself a glass of water or pushing a button on a remote, what is he serving the country for? He'll have time to focus on that later, he instead directing his attention to the screen.
Richmond is holding a stack of papers, patting them down together into a uniform pile on his desk, and when he looks up at the camera, his eyes flash brightly. "He's so handsome..." Nyria comments rather dreamily, looking over the couch and back at Lydia. "You've gotten yourself quite the keeper, Lydia," she smiles, Lydia smiling back with a nod, but she stays silent. Emrick reaches over and turns up the volume on the TV slightly, sitting up, keeping one hand on the wet glass to keep his hands cool.
"How many of these selections are rigged, Mr. Passionia?" he asks, but he does not look at his vice president. At first he had been against the idea of rigging the reaping, but there are many loyalists and terrorists in the districts who'd wish to have the entire system dismantled and brought down to the ground in a burning pile... does he want them living out their days with the freedom to potentially do that again? No, he doesn't. He doesn't appreciate cruelty, and never gets enjoyment from it, but there are times and places where drastic measures are warranted, and the idea of throwing rebel sympathizers into the Hunger Games sounds like a rather good idea at four in the morning when he has three amaretto sours in his stomach, churning like an acid tidal wave.
"Just a few," Cain smirks back, reaching for his own glass of water, running his pointer finger around the rim. "Enough so it'd cause people to turn heads, but not enough so people would be able to see a pattern," he taking a sip, the gulps loud and effective as Nyria wrinkles her nose, scooting over some. Richmond says something else on screen, but he's done his part now, as several screens fill up the remainder of the space available, blotting him out. Twelve separate sections fill the allocated slots, before the camera zooms in on the top one.
Emrick sits up even further, setting his drink down.
This is it, time to see the tributes.
From District 1, he sees Adriane Lantham, a woman he raises up into her position from the way she is able to market herself. She's holding onto her tablet, as the camera pans out over the crowd, Emrick seeing a total myriad of responses, but most of them do sit on a scale between unbothered and happy, though that does surprise him. The escort taps the tablet in her grasp, and on the projector screens, the names flicker by, occasionally there being one that Emrick is able to focus on, before it lands on Cecelia Blackstone, 13... the camera straight away finding the thirteen year-old section. A young kid, a lump forming in Emrick's throat. Something about seeing eighteen year olds, and maybe seventeen year olds dying in an arena is easier on his mind, but it is the other children, the younger ones, those without a voice or a way to defend themselves that give him the sleepless nights.
She's quite small, a young little thing, the girl crossing to the stage with her face quivering, but tears do not fall, Cecelia standing tall next to Adriane despite her tiny height... the very first tribute for the Hunger Games, and no one volunteers for her. Adriane says a few words, before going over to the male name. Emrick doesn't watch, as it doesn't matter; he knows what will be coming up next as he can hear, just a few seconds later, "I volunteer!" rip out through the crowd, Cain clapping in excitement. Emrick looks back to see Catalus Drachma take the stage, the kid's voice having been filled with pride. Emrick knows very well of the Drachma Federation, the conglomerate they believe themselves to be, and people who are not immune to dying by the sword... and what do they do to save their skin? Send one of their own up the river. It is not a rigged reaping necessarily, but it would have been any one of the Drachma Federation's many members who had kids; this is their reputation, and unbeknownst to them, there will be many more of those kids getting served up to the slaughter year after year after year... they need to learn that their actions will have consequences.
The focus shifts to District 2, Emrick smiling at the amount of celebration he can feel practically waft off of the screen. Banners are flying up on flagpoles, the Panemian flag big and bright on the backdrop of the mansion. District 2, the ones who were smart enough to see a losing battle and beg for forgiveness. He has always needed his shoes shined, and someone is there to do it for him now. The selected girl does not receive a volunteer, and flashing across the screen is Portia Beninblade, 18, and Cain gasps, almost knocking his glass off of the side of the table. Emrick looks over at he and Lydia, who is also frowning.
"No... she- she's one of the good ones..." Cain sputters, his face losing all color quite rapidly, Emrick frowning and returning his attention back to the screen as Portia is kicking, hollering, screaming, begging... something's wrong, she should not be getting sent to the Games, before she's thrown on stage, the male name being drawn when someone yells out that they volunteer. Heads whirl around, Cain uttering another gasp as this is entirely unexpected, apparently, when Emrick's gaze narrows in on the man who climbs to the top of the stage.
When prompted for his name, a sly smile dancing across the boy's face, with the name Magnus Winterthorn, Emrick's hair on his arms stand up on end, a chill passing over his body. This... who is he? The president searches through all of his mental cabinets to find a name that would closely relate to one such as a Winterthorn, but he comes up empty. Portia gets to her feet, cussing under her breath still, and when the two look at each other, she's glaring at him so strongly that Emrick can feel the anger pulsating off of her body and as if this girl from District 2 is glaring at Emrick, and not her district partner. His palms prickle and twitch against the leather
District 3 brings about Vesuvia Vocanova as a reaped tribute, who stands stunned for a moment, she walking to the stage numbly. As she stands there, waiting for the male name to be chosen, her facial expression changes from one of impasse to her grinning, Emrick swallowing nervously. Joining her is Jasper Overheart, but not at first... looking back at Cain, Emrick sees that his vice president nods at Nyria's question of it being a rigged tribute. "Just wait till you find out where he's from; Panem is going to hate him terribly." For poor Jasper, he seems to try and make it for an exit out of the square, but there are three Peacekeepers who managed to tackle him down to the ground - perhaps that type of excessive force is not exactly needed - and throw him on stage too. As he recovers his wits, his eyes burning in black anger, the two - he and Vesuvia - glance at one another, a knowing stare passing between them, Emrick lifting his head up in recognition of the stare. They know one another...
Emrick has to whistle when the next tribute is called to the stage, hailing out of Four, an athletically built girl with blonde hair by the name of Diana Kratovska, selected out of the seventeen year-old section, she keeping her gaze straight ahead, past every single person congregated in the districts. Looking back at his Capitol companions, he sees that Lydia is watching the screen almost in a trance, head titled to the side, lips parted. Someone calling out that they volunteer brings Emrick to swiveling back towards the screen as a very well built and very well kept together boy by the name of Orion Maythorpe takes the stage, but when asked to shake hands with Diana, she turns her head away, sniffling almost. Emrick expects great things from Diana and Orion, if their appearances are anything to go by.
District 5 is much less spectacular than the other four that have gone before them with volunteers and all, as no one takes the stage for Kileigh Katsaras, the girl standing next to the escort like a wax statue, not even responding to their comments or questions. He writes the girl away instantly; even if the situation is horrible and despicable - which Emrick notes that it is, he's not necessarily happy he has to sentence these kids to death, but a man must have a code, and this is his code - but one must adapt. Cain mutters something about a heavy decision, and apparently so that this Kileigh Katsaras girl is meant to be standing on stage... and here she is, crying about it. If you do not adapt, you die; it is one of Emrick's slogans. It'll never change. Twelve year-old Zachary Edison is selected next, without a volunteer as the kid bursts into tears on stage. He goes and gives Kileigh a hug instead of shaking her hand. Out of earshot, just barely, he can hear Nyria sniffing to herself, Emrick just imagining what Cain's bodily response is.
Which is that he doesn't expect Cain to go, "Oh, fuck me..." as District 6 is put on screen, everyone in the office looking towards him, but all the vice president does is nod his head. "That's Datsun Watanabe's kid," he comments, as Porscha Watanabe takes the stage, to the thunderous - a chill ripples through Emrick's body - applause of District 6 and the onlookers... some even cheering for her. She is not a volunteer, no one takes the girl's place, as Porscha's name in written in a jade font along the silver screens planted on the sides.
"Datsun Watanabe..." Emrick repeats the name to himself, rolling the syllables off his tongue. "The same man who provided a majority of our hovercraft forces?"
"The very same..." Cain takes a deep breath, as Pierce Alversway from the fifteen year-old section is reaped in District 6, the kid laughing heartily as he makes his way to the stage. Cain takes his focus off the screen, gaze averting to Lydia. "Soldier Wickervein, I expect we'll be getting a call from Datsun very soon. If you can be a doll, please go and keep him busy so I can then go and speak with him." Lydia nods her head at the order, leaving without another word, Emrick pursing his lips at the sight.
He didn't use her first name. Any time Emrick speaks to someone who is a Peacekeeper, first name basis. He's seen what happened in the districts when they felt that they were being abused and mistreated... why would he allow an insurrection like that to happen in the Capitol, so shortly after surviving through the first one?
Seven brings Nevaeh Davoli to the stage, Cain muttering under his breath a 'rigged' selection, the girl trembling like a leaf in the wind, Nyria making a cooing noise in her throat. Fourteen year-old Sylvan Adello is nothing more than that, as he walks up to the stage in jerky, robotic movements. Neither he nor Nevaeh seem to bring much to the stage in terms of excitement and rooting ability, but Emrick notes their demises all the same. Perhaps they can surprise him, he's not so sure.
However, what does surprise him, as if someone punched him in the windpipe, is Poem Cavalli volunteering out of District 8. The girl practically shouts the proclamation in glee, skipping to the stage, hands bunching up at the skirt she is wearing, Emrick's eyes drowning in a sea of velvet fabric from the design she is wearing. The girl clutches them to her body daintily, swinging them about, Cain snorting in disbelief - or disgust, Emrick is not so sure which is which any more - as Poem proudly announces that the outfit she designed is one she made herself. Her district partner is Niklaus Peverell, Emrick clenching his hands on the armrests of the chair he's sitting in, as there is something deathly off about the teenager in front of him, he swaying slightly from side to side, his eyes unfocused.
For the first time since this has all began, the reaping of Camilla Rodriguez out of District 9 has someone screaming her name, a kid in the fourteen year old section clamoring at the ropes and trying to push through the crowd to reach her. However, even then, the girl does not focus on who must be her brother calling out for her, Emrick practically seeing the gears turn inside her head. Her district partner, seventeen year-old Gemini Lennox is also another shaking leaf on stage, and when the two are forced to shake hands, it looks as if he's seen a ghost and the ghost has reappeared in the form of his district partner.
He knows a panic attack when he sees one, as the District Ten female is Nokomis Yanaba, with no volunteers to her name, the girl bursting into tears the moment the holograph on the projectors land on her name with a golden 16 swirling in a circle next to it, like a gambling prize. Cain whistles lowly to himself, Nyria brushing her ponytail to the side, but Emrick supposes that it must be getting bored to watch these kids get selected and there not being any fireworks, those mainly coming from Jasper and Porscha's reapings. Calen Kinegrove is to join her from the fifteen year-old section, a very tall kid despite his youthful age, he towering over Nokomis by at least a good five inches, maybe a half foot, a look of worry on his face even as they shake hands.
Emrick understands that he must not rope every single young little kid together as some toddler who'll piss their pants when selected, as it goes to show that thirteen year-old Cassiopeia Grey entirely knocks that notion down, she screaming in fury when her name is selected, trying to punch the Peacekeeper who goes to grab her on the stage, but he catches her wrist, holding her up like a rag doll, and practically tosses her like one onto the stage. The girl gets up, immediately trying to run back down the stairs, screaming, shouting, cussing, every violent action under the sun while she's kept back. In comparison, Dill Waylon, her district partner is like Sylvan Adello from Seven, he walking to the stage in a more resigned manner, and when he looks over at Cassiopeia's antics, the look in his eyes is one of judgement, Emrick smirking at that. It is the people like Cassiopeia that are the ones to die. It is those like Dill that always manage to survive.
And last but certainly not least is District 12, for the name flashing on the screen is Kai'sa Shadow, and Emrick thought that Nokomis had a bad reaction, it is unlike anything for when Kai'sa starts screaming at the top of her lungs, shouting something at the top of her lungs about a red rose and blood, her own hands clawing at every tangible piece of herself, fingernails making a slash across her own wrist, copper spilling onto the stage, causing her to scream harder. A Peacekeeper grips her by the back of her neck, injecting a relaxant into her body as she slumps in the man's arms.
"Goddamn it," Cain hisses under his breath, running a hand through his hair. "I might as well join Lydia on the phone calls."
"Why?" Emrick asks his vice president, looking over at him as the escort in Twelve lets out a long resigned sigh, before clapping their hands together.
"That's Simon Ether's adopted daughter," the Head Gamemaker says slowly. "He lost his in a fire that burnt down the mansion, and when we selected him, a loyalist mayor, to lead Twelve, he planned on adopting a kid and he chose her," he said, pointing at Kai'sa, who is now a bundle of sound asleep flesh getting walked into the Justice Building. Cain turns around to leave, but not before pausing, "And the male tribute is a rigged one as well," before he is gone, in Lydia's shadow.
Ramses Boskov from Twelve is indeed a rigged tribute, Emrick recognizing the last name immediately, the kid making it to the stage, looking like he's about to burst into tears, his lip quivering, but he seems to grip onto his arms together, keeping his composure.
That is all the reapings, several of which definitely be eye-openers, as Emrick turns the screen off, facing the only other member left in the room with him.
Nyria is busy looking at her nails before she lifts her head, tilting it to the side some. "What do you think about them, Mr. President? Do they fit your expectations?"
Emrick makes a promise to himself the moment the legislature is passed about the Hunger Games. Whenever there is a reaping, and the selected are chosen, he will not let them die without knowing their names. It is a punishment that is needed, it is necessary, but he will learn their names, he will learn all of their names. "Cecelia Blackstone, Catalus Drachma, Portia Beninblade, Magnus Winterthorn, Vesuvia Vocanova, Jasper Overheart, Diana Kratovska, Orion Maythorpe, Kileigh Katsaras, Zachary Edison, Porscha Watanabe, Pierce Alversway, Nevaeh Davoli, Sylvan Adello, Poem Cavalli, Niklaus Peverell, Camilla Rodriguez, Gemini Lennox, Nokomis Yanaba, Calen Kinegrove, Cassiopeia Grey, Dill Waylon, Kai'sa Shadow, Ramses Boskov..." he trails off, having listed all twenty-four names, some of them volunteering for others for reasons he'll never know, some rigged by Cain's own devices for reasons he'll never know, and some unluckily tossed into the draw... he will not let them die until he knows their names. "I want you to learn their names, Nyria," he says, but it is not a passing comment. It is a command. "Out of respect for them, do it," he runs a hand through his hair, hair that is getting grayer by the minute. "As per your question, they exceed my expectations. I think they will be glorious."
The smile that flashes across his face might be the nail in the coffin, but it is almost out of habit.
These are his tributes.
And they are beautiful.
The calling of the culled has passed, and now, it is game time.
Time for the tributes to perform.
Alrighty, ladies and gentlemen! That was Chapter #8: The Calling of the Culled, which focused on our reaping + reaping recap with Emrick as a Capitol POV. The four tributes we were officially introduced to were Orion Maythorpe from Four by jimster920, Kileigh Katsaras from Five by LiveFreeOrDie, Magnus Winterthorn from Two by Audmirable, and Nevaeh Davoli from Seven by dyloccupy. But also, further than that, we've gotten a glimpse at every tribute and their moment of reaping. Which POV tribute stood out to you the most, and which tributes mentioned in the recap stood out to you as well?
Next chapter, #9: Briskly Created Negotiations, will be focusing on one of three train ride chapters, where we will be meeting four new more tributes for the first time, as we're in the latter half of the cast now. They will be: Dill Waylon (D11M), Portia Beninblade (D2F), Zachary Edison (D5M), and Poem Cavalli (D8F). We are officially into Pre-Game territory, which means a lot of information hitting you all at once, but I cannot wait. I am very happy with how this chapter turned out, and I should be getting to the next intro before the end of the month, as Bombs and Bullets - I'd love if you all could check that story out if you haven't, as we're nearly done, just four chapters left! - will be getting most of my attention, but soon it'll just be me and Liberty, which I can't wait for. I'd greatly appreciate support of any kind, and as soon as every tribute is introduced, I'll be putting up a poll on my profile, so look out for that.
I love you all so very much! Thank you for all that you do! Have a great day, and please be safe out there in this wild world with the situations and events that are unfolding. Bye!
~ Paradigm