Author's Note: Hello! I was supposed to make this for 6 tributes but then it got long so I made it for four tributes. Expect the next to be 6.
And I want to remind you that the more you review, the longer your tribute will stand in the Games.
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Note: the capitol is a home to powerful Capitol and district people.
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The Capitol
History
The Capitol was thriving of moneyed businessmen, valuable politicians, renowned gamblers and prideful aristocrats, either coming from a pure descendant of the capitol or from a far away district. If you weren't a company owner, you were a company worker. If aren't a gambler, you'd be the one gambled. If you aren't a powerful aristocrat, you'd be a powerless butler. After the rebellion, the Capitol was only a place for men who earned a place in high society and their servants, the rest that goes in the middle spilled over the districts.
The Capitol was a superior Metropolis, governing over all twelve districts and reigning with the thirteenth. Ex-president Paylor constituted that the Capitol were to work with District 13, the district with a powerful military system. The rest of the districts had their needs guaranteed by both. And thirty years later, all districts and Capitol had been living in total equality.
Except for the Hunger Games.
It turned out that the districts of Panem did not want equality. They wanted satisfaction. Katniss Everdeen had sealed the decision thirty years ago to make one last Hunger Games for Capitol children for hopes that the districts will have their thirst of revenge quenched. Unfortunately, it only made their blood thirst for the enemy grow. When the government council (made of one representative for each district and one for the Capitol) announced that there will only be one Games, Panem rampaged. And only one thing can calm them down.
The reincarnation of the suicidal games.
Did Miss Everdeen ever regret?
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The Capitol
Reapings, Center Square
Phebe Stunn stood solely in the stage. Her stage. The setting of the drama she will pioneer and the core of the greenery of money she will be supplied. She was as selfish woman and she loved it. After ten years of merciless violence that she sat by and watched with the kids she knew so well, she didn't care now. Money weighed more than her own people. And money will always flood right in her palms as long as she stays unfalteringly energetic and static onstage.
Seven sections spread across the center square, 12 to 18 years old. She quietly scowled at the sight of the kids, not because of predicted deaths but that they wore the same resplendent blue hair and she couldn't stand that they looked better on them. Then she flipped her hair and cued backstage for the ceremony to start.
The heavy sounds of the trumpets echoed in open air and she could see everyone shift. They were nervous. Some are shaking grotesquely, others are trying to keep their head high and a few are just staring at the government council who were climbing the steep stairs of the stage, fake grins plastered across their faces. Not all of the council are enjoying the games, to the exception of District 3 and 11 representatives who believed the children deserved it.
They each took turns reading paragraphs of the "new" history of Panem and quite dignified at that. When they were done, they stepped down the mammoth stage and took their seats at the first front of the audience.
"Good evening to all!" Phebe leaped gracefully to the wooden floor covering of the stage, appearing like a cross between a swan and a frog.
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"Where should we start? Ladies or gentlemen?" a man pushed two wheeled columns that carried the two reaping balls and place them at both flanks of Phebe who was now gesturing to the crowd which to pick first. "Ladies?" she asked and the crowd roared, answering.
"And a lady shall it be!" she placed a bony hand into the round glass and made suspenseful glance to the audience, making them shift more in restrained fear. Her talon-like nails caught a piece of scribbled paper and she lifted it, looking for a name.
"Uh-oh. I guess we all know her!" she let out a high-pitched laugh which was followed by a snort. "My people, welcome Ayssa Gamble!"
A girl stepped out from the 18-section, her emotion, vague from the plastered pokerface enhanced by multiple face alterations but the crowd all knows what the Gamble daughter is feeling. If she could move her brows, it would be arched down in a manner of destructing anger and if her eyes weren't pitch black, you could see them narrow to the host.
She sauntered her way to the stage, she did not need to push the crowd to make way because they are doing it voluntarily. No, no, not for respect or pity but for satisfaction and laughable fate. She may be in a high place of society but not a daughter of a reputable man. Her father, profession gambler and casino owner, Ayssa helped him all her life to cheat the money away from half-witted, gullible men. But Ha! What money she extracted with those thick-headed men! They can't even look after their own cards! And to those who do, she only needed her lustful charms to sway them out of the game.
And Panem knows her just for that. That's what her face says, a symbol of a playing card ace drawn across her impeccably Botoxed face.
She climbs up, her eyes unomving and cold to the extended arm of Phebe Stunn, thinking of her as an absurd Capitol woman. When she finally reached her, the crowd roars in applaud and it did not even felt forced. That lying, self-serving whore of a young girl can rot in the exuding inferno of the gamemakers for all they care. But Ayssa doesn't care and the only thing she can feel is the constant and continuous laugh of the host and the irritation that it brings. To her frustration, she faces the woman of blue hair and big bobbing eyes and made a fistful punch to her idiotic face. "Why me?" she screamed high-pitched scream.
The crowd could not move by static surprise of the bloodied nose of the host.
So much for looks.
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The crowd returned to its nervous state after the recuperation of Stunn. They shift lightly back and forth as she places her fingers in between of a paper, now in forced vivaciousness and energy. "The gentleman is..." her voice was light contrasting to the suspense, "Saxon Avrid!"
A tall boy of obsidian black hair and sarcastic smile walks forward from a dark section of a group of trees. He didn't even bother to join his respected section. But why would he? He was not a man of the law and not a man of fairness either. When the light shone through his face, the rest of the audience looked toward Saxon. At first, they only subdued him with anger that he did not join his section then wondered how he could have escaped the peacekeepers. But the intelligent ones only stared him at faint recognition. Black hair, piercing blue eyes that could cut like a knife and movements only a thief could have.
"Saxon Avrid, his name was it?" a man asked the crowd. The peacemakers, now getting the idea, seized and overpowered him. But the boy only seemed emotionless and unphazed. He was a thief, top of the wanted list of head peacemakers and a dangerous surge of criminal activity known as Blackout. He is called Blackout because that is often the last things his victims see before they find their stores completely cleaned out of merchandise.
Being a boy who escaped the most dangerous of all law enforcers, he could have had escaped Hunger Games and not even bother to show up. But a life of thievery did not supply the violence he wanted to play Panem and his pursuers with. Two peacemakers grappled him up to the stage. Once they were up, he caught a small whisper under the breath of a peacemaker, "Give us the honor to see you die. Blackout."
When they release him, Phebe Stunn did not bother shaking his hand, in fear that he might physically harass her too and his atmosphere was frightening anyways. So they both just stand there. She's giving the crowd a dynamic smile and he's giving them a cold icy stare of daggers.
"Saxon Avrid as Male tribute!"
No more childish games, he'll steal lives this time.
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"Now that shall be the first pair!" she fills the air in an infectious laugh, her brightness is contrasting to the melancholic air of the audience. "I wonder who will be the second," she sings.
Beneath the crowd, a small girl of everything blue is constantly prying her teal fingernails in the soil, a habit of nervousness. Her long blue hair fell down to her shoulders, hiding her crystal blue eyes and her long blue snake tattooed at the side of her face. She's an exalted version of a luxuriously living little miss blue muffet. She prayed multiple times in her head for her name not to be called, her eyes unmoving to the ground, unable to take in the suspense.
"Which name? Which name?" Phebe still sings as her fingers gingerly grip a small piece of paper buried under other thousands. As she unfold the paper, a name spread across her eyes and in cue, she announces a name. "Sapphire Evans!"
Then almost like a beat of a drum, the small girl gulped. Her knees could not carry her and her bright blue hair was soaked with her own tears. "Me?" she would not move but the crowd automatically shoved her to the stage. "I cannot," she pleaded, half of her head filled with dread and the other was going through thoughts of her own family. She was just a little girl or at least she felt like it in the age of fourteen. She was this sweet girl that went all around the streets asking everyone if they visit their tattoo shop; she'll give them free tattoos. But she felt like in her state, her makeup half destroyed and she was in no dignified disposition, she let her family name down.
As she climbed through the steps of the stairs, her feet slipped in one of the slippery moss sections and tripped with her own feet. "Awww," she groaned in pain and embarrassment as now she fell down the stairs and was lying on the ground. It was a grotesque trip, she looked unfathomably comical.
She lived as a daughter of a respected family. This was supposed to be none of what she should have carried her family name. And as she thought of her family more, Kora, her bestfriend, a realization comes clearer into her cerebrum. Optimism clouded most of her sense and she stood up. Not with her head down, but gracefully and smiling. She stared at the crowd, she thought of how she CAN. Dignity and confidence were now her stars. If she could win or if she tried to win, people would not look to her with pity but with an elevation of commanding bravery and a character of competence. Now what would they think of her family now?
As she climbed again to the forsaken stairs, she held her back erect until she did not look like a mere pittance. Her face was strong in determination, her eyes fierce and her blue hair stupendously soaked in tears made her look as if she was a mermaid out of sea.
Now do you see? Ambition makes people beautiful.
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"What nice little lady, no?" Phebe danced around in high kinetic energy stamped in her brain stem, she looked at Sapphire with brightness and gives her a nod, "which gentleman shall accompany you now?"
With great animation, she buried her bony hand inside the reaping ball, waiting as if she will magically feel the destined name. When she was satisfied, she takes out a name and showed faint recognition. "Look who it is! The Machiavellian son. Niccolo Machiavelli!"
The only thing that Niccolo thought of doing after he heard his name was to laugh. It was an odd twist of fate. Maybe the universe was on his side today and what great blessing it is. He always wanted to volunteer but that was not on his enterprise. He was an heir of a high-society business and was forbidden to die. Hunger Games was much too risky for his parents. But he was chosen out of the thousands, truly its fate, is it not?
But his parents predictably would have hired another boy to volunteer if ever he was reaped. He climbed up the stage, his gaze cold and unforgiving. His eyes were fleeting through the crowd to look for a hand that would raise and once he caught a boy with his hand halfway to raising (probably the hired boy), he menacingly stared with daggers, "Don't dare. I'll have you killed," he mouthed. The boy shivered and restrained his hand. Niccolo grinned.
His skin was dyed jet black and his hair in red with undertones of orange, yellow and a little blue so it almost looks like it was made from fire. He wanted to intimidate. He wanted to look Machiavellian as possible. It was in his name. And with Hunger Games, he'll win and they'll die. He can degrade them, crash them down and even kill themselves with a pinch of talent of words.
Because he's a snake and he knows it.
What do you think? I like Sapphire Evans' part!