Thank you for your patience! Don't worry, I'm not going to leave this story to die. What do you think of the revised title?
Maximum Mao
That dude trudges up to the stage as if there's a permanent rain-cloud over his head. I'm not joking, his misery seems contagious—the whole crowd is oddly grimacing and frowning. But they're probably just disappointed they got such a lousy tribute. This kid looks about my age, but he came from the group of sixteen year olds, and he has hardly any meat on his bones. He's like a skeleton; bones nearly visible against pale white skin and long black hair that cascades over his face. I feel myself frowning as well, but listen up again as our District's escort speaks.
"Any volunteers?" She asks, only receiving a gloomy silence in return. "All right then—then I give you your male tribute District 8; Tycho Weatherby!"
She says it as if it's our loss for not volunteering a more fit and well-fed tribute. Truthfully though, there aren't very many. I'm lucky to be one of those capable kids, with enough to eat and a beautiful face to match. Even though I'm only twelve, I'd totally be a contender in the games if my name was chosen.
Sad thing is that Tycho would actually be quite handsome if he didn't look like such a freak.
Our escort's name is Velvia, and her eyes are a bright shade of red, which make her look quite demonic, to be honest. She looks as if Valentine's Day just threw up on her with her dyed pink skin and pink hair. If this isn't bad enough for your eyes, both her arms and each cheek is tattooed with the white outline of a heart. Ugh. If I was in the Capitol, I'd use my makeup to enhance my beauty, not turn myself into a holiday.
She's choosing the female tribute now, rummaging through the slips like it's a treasure hunt. One slip has my name on it. Just one. Out of like, I dunno, thousands?
But what-do-you-know—Velvia chooses that slip, that single slip, out of all the others. To most, it's a sentence to death. To me, it's a dream come true.
I can hardly control my excitement as my name is announced via loudspeaker, and I push my way through all the crowds of kids since I'm in the back with the other twelve year olds, as fast as I can. Once I finally arrive in the spotlight, I give a small smile to the crowd below me, then to Tycho and then to the cameras. Then I put on a tough look—as tough as I can look wearing a dress and heels. I'll save seduction for the arena, I decide, as Velvia asks for volunteers.
Tycho Weatherby
"Then, District 8, your female tribute, Maximo Mao!"
"Just Maximum, please," Responds the girl with a tricky grin as she turns to me with the exact same expression and extends her hand. I stare at it for a moment before sighing and shrugging. I clasp my hand in hers, and she gives it a firm shake.
…She's pretty, I guess.
It's not that I'm thrilled to go to the Games, but…
There's nothing here for me either, so…
My parents are disappointed in me already, and they could deal with one less mouth to feed…
I don't really put a lot of emotion into things. I'm exhausted everyday from working and then coming home to a pitiful excuse for a dinner and then going to sleep, having vividly maddening nightmares, waking up, going to work without breakfast, having a meager lunch and sharing some morphling with this other rich kid who works with me, and then going home and having dinner if there's any more left and then going to sleep…
All my money I get from work I spend on morphling or other drugs that are being sold. My mother yells at me for not bringing it home to support the family; my four sister, mother and father and I, but I stopped caring a while ago. I guess that's why I'm not sobbing when I'm going into the Games. All this pain and responsibility will finally be lifted from my shoulders when I die.