Ivory Millefiori
Mentor, District 1
Victor of the 9th Hunger Games
Sobol hunted in complete darkness. A very rich man with a very big hard on for the strong and silent type sponsored him night vision goggles on the third day. His hideout was by the river, the river – the only water source in the arena. He dropped down on them from above, and smothered six tributes with his sleeping bag; there were no weapons in the cornucopia that year – the last two tributes standing other than Sobol were both from Three.
"You look terrible, Ivory" is of course, the first thing that comes out of Opal's mouth in greeting.
Sobol and I share a look as I take my seat on the stage; I want to hit the pregnant woman – but I shouldn't hit a pregnant woman.
"And you're incandescent as always, Opal"
She does look radiant, it's true, but I can't help but inject as much sarcasm as possible into our every exchange; Opal coated five daggers with poison from plants found in her arena. She didn't directly benefit from the kindness of sponsors, and as such, was subject to fewer negotiations than the rest of us.
She also would have been on the train today instead of me – but we have Sobol to thank for that.
Marc joins us to Opal's left; he's wearing his emerald suit – the one he likes the look of himself in. The one everyone likes the look of himself in. Sobol and I really don't stand a chance; Marc's the best looking one on this stage, and he knows it. I'm not saying he's without talent, but part of his success is owed to the girls from Two and Four; that alliance carried him through to the end, with just enough time to show once and for all who among them he loved best: that would be Marc.
"Ladies" he bows, kissing Opal's hand in greeting, and giving the two of us a wink out of one heavily made-up eye.
He stumbles still bent over when Syrah storms the stage.
Every cloud has its silver lining.
The escort is almost derailed by the tragedy of Marc unbecoming, but somehow manages to introduce the Mayor, who begins his speech – the same one he's recited the nine years he's been in office here. I take the opportunity to risk a glance at Syrah. She looks stern, but then again, she always looks stern, so that's no cause for alarm. She's wearing a deep crimson coat that disappears into black tendrils that swirl around her knees, and black hunting boots laced up higher than that. Her hair is gold, but white has been coming through these past few years; she has it swept up in a knot on the top of her head – she looks nice; stern, but nice.
She crosses her legs and shoots me a glance that says 'you're done looking', and I snap my head back to the escort, who has reappeared, ecstatic for her moment in the spotlight to begin.
At least I didn't bite my lip.
Carnelian Cameo
Male Tribute, District 1
He didn't know that Nam had won when he died; Ebony finished the girl from Two, and collapsed against the cornucopia crying – he thought he was the last one standing. He was tired, and dirty, and he was happy – I had never in my life seen Ebony happy, but it didn't last. Nam ran a current through the cornucopia constantly wet from a never-ending downpour; it worked pretty well.
Jasper, died in Opal's games. He was the eldest.
I'm the last one of us father will let compete. Agate is going to be a peacekeeper, and I'm secretly grateful. If I can't manage this, there'll still be her. She'll still be here. She's standing in the sixteens now; red hair runs in the family, and like the rest of us, she has hers well tamed. It runs down her back in a tightly wound braid, and threaded through it is Ebony's token: a blue velvet ribbon he took from the cat. Ebony wasn't one for sentiment; his token was hastily shoved in his back pocket on the way to the Reaping seven years ago – but its value has soared now he's gone.
I have Jasper's token. It's probably bad luck, but I want him with me wherever it is I'm headed, in spite of how without utility a rubber stamp of an ostrich is. I play with it now, waiting for the girl to be chosen, and immediately replaced by Collet. The inscription along the side is in a language long lost, but father tells me it says, "I trust in the Lady of Life; let me then live". If Jasper asked her to save him, she mustn't have heard. He took a wound to the thigh on the eighth day; Eleven's sickle cut deep, and the wound festered. He was half mad when his heart stopped beating.
"Ladies first!" trills Circe; I think that's the escort's name - Circe.
My heart rate is soaring, and I clutch the stamp hard in the palm of my hand. It hurts a little, and that helps.
Circe balances on the balls of her feet while she inspects the big silver ball containing the name of every eligible girl in the District. Less theatrical than years past, she pauses for only a moment before choosing a slip on the very top, in the absolute middle.
"Lucia Vickers!" rings out across the square.
A pretty little girl emerges from the thirteens. She's clearly upper class; her dress is ivory – not white, and not grey. She takes a deep shuddering breath and tucks her curly brown hair behind her ears. She's doesn't cry. I think she may be the daughter of a goldsmith in town. She's handling this well; I'm sure he'll be proud.
Circe is beside herself with joy. Confidence, or in its absence, grace, reflects well on the district, and in turn, well on her. She's leaning forward at the top of the stairs, with a hand outstretched for Lucia to take. She's terrifying to behold, I mean, she's blue - but I see the kindness there, and I silently thank her for it.
"Although it's clear we have a splendid tribute here indeed, it is my duty to ask if there are any among you who wish to take dear Lucia's place - are there any volunteers?"
There's a moment, only one before -
"Me. Just me," shrugs Collet. I thought her angle going in would be more, grand? I thought she'd make more of a fuss. But quiet confidence has its advantages too. She'll be less of a target this way.
She makes her way through the seventeens to the front of the stage with ease; the girls have parted to give her a straight path forward. Syrah probably had something to do with that. She's particularly gifted at threatening trainees; it's made more impressive by the fact that she never once has to talk to them to get her way.
Lucia skips down the stairs in a clear struggle to contain her relief. She holds eye contact with Collet for a moment as they meet at the bottom, and then she's gone – swallowed up by the crowd.
"And what is your name, lovely?"
"Collet. Collet Spinel" is said cleanly without embellishment - without even much of a smile.
"Wonderful! Now we have our female tribute, it's on to the boys!"
I can't find Agate in the crowd.
Collet Spinel
Female Tribute, District 1
I dyed my hair last night in an attempt to blend in with the other tributes. Blondes are a dime a dozen in One, and in Two; they're sort of a Career staple: blonde, and strong, and deadly. It's grey like soot right now and I hate it – but it's necessary, so Syrah says. Without you know, saying anything at all.
Syrah is blonde (with a little white, sure).
Marc is blonde.
Sobol is blonde.
Ivory's hair is black – I know, hilarious.
Opal's hair is also - you guessed it, blonde.
My game isn't entirely image, but it definitely helps. If I'm overlooked long enough for another tribute to knock off Carnelian, I can make my exit from the Career alliance in the confusion, without the stain of having killed my District partner. Until that time, I'll be using my left hand. It's almost as good as my right, but it's not quite there yet. It'll get me close enough to targets to make the cut in training, but far enough to escape envy from the other Careers, and the attention of bigger outlying alliances, if there are any this year.
I'm counting on Carnelian to shine. With how well his family has done so far, that boy has a lot to make up for; it'll be hard to prove to the audience that he's different than the rest, that he's better. This suits me just fine. Let the pressure be on him. I won't be mediocre forever.
Circe walks over to the silver ball holding the boys names. This time she digs; she digs and she digs, and she swirls one manicured hand around and around until deciding on the boy Carnelian will be replacing.
It's common knowledge in One. You make the grade, and everyone else gets out of your way. No one would mess with Syrah's choices, and to a lesser extent, Ivory's; they sort of come as a pair.
"Ore Ovidius!" she cries.
I know Ore, sort of. He's training for the games; he should be ready the year after next. This will be good practice for him.
Ore is tall for a fifteen; broad and slouched, he walks as if bored by this, and I'm finding it hard not to chuckle. Nice one, Ore. He's stomping up the steps in an effort to make it clear to Circe how terribly inconvenienced he is in this moment. She balks, and blinks, and hurriedly forces a fake smile on her surgically altered face.
"What a strong candidate! Does anyone want to volunteer for Ore?"
"I do!" shouts Carnelian, and he's jogging up to the stage grinning. Good.
Ore to his credit rolls his eyes and slaps Circe's hand off his shoulder on his way back to his friends.
Carnelian, to his credit - and my benefit, is the very image of what a Career should be. He looks genuinely ecstatic to be here. I wonder how long he had to practice that. He's tall, and while slender, is as toned as it's likely possible for him to be. Carnelian runs. He runs, and he throws knives. Not manly, but effective enough. He's also really good at climbing. It's best I don't forget this going in.
I've trained with him.
I have everything I need to beat him.
Or everything I need to let someone beat him for me.
