Lucent Saccharyn POV:
Cassus and Pyramus lay out the sample outfits on the workbench. They're a light teal color and accented by salmon straps and fittings. Each outfit has a long linen skirt over trim pants that can be unzipped into shorts. There are thick, tall socks and custom-made boots with a hard outer shell and cushy, blister- and irritation-proof interior with springy, grip soles embedded with sharp silver spikes to provide better traction. Each outfit is equipped with ventilated underwear, and the female prototype includes a breathable jostle-free sports bra. The shirts are long-sleeved but have an area to cuff them at both elbow and shoulder. There are hooded quarter-zips over the shirts, and both outfits topped off with an overcoat that would reach to the knees. Both outfits have salmon-orange leather trappings and metal buckles to hold removable and customizable clothing out of the way. Each outfit also has some storage in the layers of clothing as well as the large pouches on the overcoat. The clothes are very well-made and durable. In addition, the fabric is stretchy and water-resistant. They can withstand blizzards, swimming, mud, and extreme heat. I gush over them to my Gamemakers. I wish I could produce twenty-four of them right now but we won't have Reaped the tributes for another fifteen days. We're one day away from the quickly approaching two-week mark. I'm almost afraid that we won't be prepared for their long-awaited arrival, but my team knows what they're doing. Pinky has designed so many muttations that production in the Genetic Hybridization and Manufacturing department is backed up by nearly ten hours, they just can't keep up with her incredible work ethic. Enough mutts have already been produced that we have a whole floor brimming with enclosures for them all.
I've also been working on the arena almost nonstop. The fastest an arena has ever been made before was two months, but we're smashing that record this year. We already have all the terrain implanted, and we've rigged up cameras everywhere. We can control light, weather, and temperature inside it. We have all the water in place, and the caves too. The forcefield border has been erected, of course. We're three days ahead of schedule on it, actually, so I've decided I'll take a trip down to the Training Center in the Tribute Building next door. There's another person in the elevator when the doors open, but I brave the awkward silence because I don't want to trudge down ninety flights of stairs in high heels. When I'm finally in the Training Center, I approach the Head Trainer, who's talking with a few electricians and architects who've been shipped over from the Districts specifically to remodel the top floor of this building. Once she's dismissed them, she waves me over. Her name is Hortensia and she's only nineteen, graduated top of her class. Every year, we bless the valedictorian with their dream job. She's absolutely thrilled to be so involved with the Games this year. "Lucent!" she cheers. "It's great that you're here! We need to talk about the stations. Would you like to help me set up?" I consider for a moment. I don't really want to take the time for it right now, but I need to anyway, so I take her up on it.
She walks me through the new Training Center as the workers swarm around us. We decided to add lots of skylights and replace the harsh lighting with something softer. Plate glass windows are being installed in the walls, which are being painted a pale gray to give the room a more open feel. If people are going to spend training days in a single room, it might as well be a beautiful room. She shows me trees, mats, combat rings, private training booths, swimming pools, and an array of beautiful and deadly weapons from all over the world. They're arranged by category, and we've got literally hundreds of different types. We have thirty different types of polearms alone. Tributes will really have their pick of the litter this year. I help Hortensia load up racks of weapons, organize the room, drag and arrange and rearrange stations, all the time weaving in and out of the workers' way. She suddenly turns to me, asking a question out of the blue: "Are you planning to rig any of the Reapings this year?" I'm not sure what to tell her. I haven't really thought about it, and now I can't seem to come up with a good response.
"You know," I say, "I haven't really considered it one way or the other. What do you think I should do?" I drag a rack of dummies along, snapping them into place on the floor as I go.
"You know how my brother works in Peacekeeping? Well, he was complaining the other night about this moron in District Six who sells drugs but is way too powerful to deal with in the usual ways-like execution-so nobody can really deal with him. But I got thinking, what if he has a kid? We could just throw his kid into the Arena. I mean, sucks to be the kid, but we'd be saving an innocent child from another family and punish a criminal in the process. Two birds with one stone." As cruel as it sounds, Hortensia definitely has a point. I make a quick call right on the spot, come to find out the drug kingpin in question does have a child. Specifically he has a seventeen year old son, who, come to find out, also has a criminal record. I'm sort of thankful for that because now I don't have to feel as guilty about essentially condemning him to death.
"The deed is done," I say calmly. I just ordered the people who type and print and cut the slips of paper for the Reaping bowls to only put one name in the male bowl for District Six. Most Gamemakers have elected to rig the Reapings at some point or another in their careers. It's not exactly a norm, but there's nothing rare about it. Hortensia and I quickly tidy up the Training Center before saying our goodbyes and parting. I have one more important duty to attend to before I can return home for the evening: I've got to prepare lodgings and transportation for the Escorts, who leave first thing tomorrow for their assigned districts. I furiously bounce my knee as I participate in an increasingly frustrating conversation with the Head Train Conductor, who is arguing that it would be easier to put them all on one train like we have in some past years. I have to explain in minute detail, so much so it's like arguing with a toddler, that it is in fact a Quarter Quell and we need to have only the best, and the Escorts won't have adequate transport or means to travel in if we put them on a single train. After a long and exhausting hour of arguing, haggling, threats, bribery, and slightly illegal promises of favors, I'm finally ready to return to my home. I say goodbye to Chris and the few other remaining workers, and instead of loading myself into a taxi, I take my sweater off and tie it around my waist. Rain sprinkles gently all around me, the unmistakable scent of summertime taking me back to childhood memories. I slowly walk the dark streets of the Capitol, illuminated by neon billboards advertising the latest entertainer or celebrity event or brand of shoes. The rain soaks my shirt, permeating through to my skin where it beads up and drips down. Down, down, onto a familiar welcome mat. What strange twist of fate has brought me to Jessiah Marius's doorstep this late at night? I try to tell myself I didn't mean to, I didn't know he lived here, but that would be a lie. I haven't been here in three years, only seeing him at work, but my feet have remembered the path. It's the very same one I'd follow as a college student, slipping out of my window late at night, carefully avoiding every sidewalk crack, knocking softly on his door. He'd open it for me. Somedays Gil would be there, sometimes not, but either way we'd laugh the night away over a tub of ice cream and a bad sitcom. He'd sing karaoke horribly off-pitch, take my mind off the one thing both he and I never wanted to think about again. But one day the unthinkable happened, and I've never come back. I resist the temptation to run away. Instead I raise my fist to the door, knocking. Jessiah opens the door. I stand just outside of the threshold, afraid to come in, smell the lingering stench of sorrow trapped within the walls.
"Do you wanna come in, or?" I poke my head inside. Just as I suspected, it looks exactly the same. Jess needs to get out of this place. It sucks all the life out of him. He's not the same Head Peacekeeper as he usually is when he's in this house.
"Wanna come to mine instead?" I ask. He looks more than happy to take me up on the offer. He might be the Head Peacekeeper, but he can only afford to live very sparsely. If he had anywhere else to stay, he'd get over there in a heartbeat. There's a horrid sense of tension, so thick it almost seems tangible.
"Sure." Suddenly, the spell is broken. He can breathe again. He stays totally silent as I slowly walk him to my home, sliding the key in the lock. I sit him down at the kitchen table in the warm glow of the dimmer switch, press a cup of coffee into his hands, and wait for the tears to fall.
Hey everybody! I know the ending of this chapter probably isn't what you were expecting, but I promise there's a reason for it. Please, for the love of everything I hold dear, give me some tributes! I cannot write this story if there are no tributes! Please take a peek at the form on my profile and submit one. We only have three so far, and I can't write Reapings until I have both tributes from a district. I love tributes of all kinds, just please take a few minutes to make a character. Write a review, PM me, I really don't care. Please just make my day by sending in a tribute.
