A/N: Anyone who has reserved spots: Get them in within two days!
CHECK OUT CAPITOLRULES, GUYS! HE'S GOT AN SYOT AND NEEDS TRIBUTES!
D2- 16- (Stonesia "Stone" Zhunder)
Have you ever felt that certain rush that makes you want to dive much farther into what gives you this rush and stay there—forever? Have you ever felt like the world may crash down, the sky may turn to flames, to ozone layer may deteriorate in a matter of seconds, and people from an unknown, unseen country far, far away will bomb the land at any moment in time, but as long as this rush is taking over your heart and soul and you are screaming with passion on the inside, it won't matter? Have you ever been overwhelmed with utter excitement and contentedness?
If so, I am not sure if you've lived a say in the life of me or not.
Though, I suppose, getting that first streak of color in my hair was pretty sweet.
And when the first dagger left my hand and stuck in the dummy so hard I couldn't pull it out, even when I yanked, I felt totally one with myself and the world—and, admittedly, extremely girly. I'd never even dare squeal out loud, but on the inside, I was jumping up and down and doing the happy dance, screaming with pride and joy, glee running through my veins.
But getting new streaks and stabbing new dummies with old daggers—it's not as appealing anymore. I continue to do these things, but they've lost their luster, their umph, and the thing that makes me giddy and weird.
Un-me, I suppose.
I'm trying to find the way to recreate this for something that will never die out for as long as I live.
Nothing comes. Nothing ever comes.
"…an' li'l' miss space-case Stone over there couldn't do nothin' worth crap 'bout now, Tris'an," I hear Gloria say.
"Least I have a brain, Gloria," I snap back. "You ain't got any grammar!"
Gloria rolls her eyes. "Ya don't neither," she spits. "Ya talk the same's me, bitch."
Gloria, Evelyn, Tristan, Marko, and I are sort of the gang of misfit toys in the district, the ones no one wants to be friends with and everyone's scared of. Most of us, except Evelyn and I, are stupider than anyone else in the whole district, let alone the country. And we're always fighting, arguing, spitting at each other. But when one of us makes a big, bad Career angry, the rest of us back up the person's mistake.
"Only here," I snarl. "See, I can be as sophisticated as ever, using proper language and grammar, and can do two-plus-eight. What does that equal, Glor'?"
Gloria walks away angrily. I smirk, knowing she knows that she has been defeated and feeling proud. I turn around and walk back towards my house after she's turned a corner and out of sight. Walking down the large, open alleyway, I laugh, and its loud echoes burst out around me creepily, which makes me laugh more. I can only imagine some "poor, poor" squirt taking a quick shortcut, thinking no one will be in this alley and then getting completely flipped out because of hearing my laughs filling the open area, bouncing around wildly.
I reach my home after short walk. I burst right in, stomp to my room, and slam the door behind me. I lie down on my bed and wait for someone to burst into my room and yell at me for slamming the door, for stomping, for making such a ruckus. I wait for Father to burst in and explode because I am not out training.
He wanted to volunteer, when he was young. But alas, on his last year, he lost hope. The boy at the top of the class was not ill or injured by the time the reaping came. He was in perfectly good health, and therefore able and going to volunteer—who wouldn't? The fame. The fortune. The getting away from my parents. And of course, the Games. Mostly the first three, though.
Anyway, the kid at the top of the class was reaped. Because of this, anyone over the age of fifteen is permitted to try to volunteer in his place. This rule is made, in my opinion, to give hope to all non-top trainees so that they still train and the training companies—the one for males, the one for females, and the coed one, which is mainly used as a regular gym—still get their hundreds of dollars from volunteers and wannabes.
My father tried to volunteer after this, but someone else beat him to it. Now he trains me like hell, living his dream through me.
If I found out that his training methods were Grandfather's training, I might just have a slightly changed perspective of my father. But I haven't been told that and I'm not looking to.
Just as I expected, the next thing I know, my parents are bursting in my room, practically melting in fiery anger. Reduced to saying things like "You—" and "Now—" in their anger, unable to form complete sentences, they look at me. My father gives in first and sits down in a chair, still fuming. But it's only because if I'm mad at him, I could stop training, and if I stop training, I can't volunteer. And he wants—no, needs—me to volunteer.
But my mother still stands at my doorway, tapping her foot, face contorted in rage. I simply give her a smile, crawl under my covers, and turn as if I am about to go to sleep and it's too bright. Containing laughter, I listen to my mother breathing huffily and can practically feeling her glare burning a hole through my covers and into the back of my head.
"Young lady," she growls. "Sit up this instant, Stonesia Zhunder!"
I do sit up, but it's only so I can correct her face to face. "It's Stone, Mother. Stonesia is not my name."
"Your reaping slips say 'Stonesia,' Stonesia, so that is your name," Father says sternly, trying to ease his anger slowly.
"Oh, yeah, my reaping slips!" I exclaim. "What about my birth certificate?"
"Of course I do! It's just…"
"It's just what?" I say angrily. I roll my eyes and point to the door. "Close it behind you, would you?"
My mother's nostrils flare as she breathes deeply; her lips are pursed; her eyes are cold and hard. She opens her mouth but says nothing for several minutes before she finally explodes, screaming, "Stonesia Zhunder! You are a disgrace and a little brat, you know it? After the reaping, you are not leaving the house, not even for school, for a week. I am taking that stupid streak out of your hair somehow and I am taking away everything but the bed and the clothes from your room. And if you act out again, Stonesia, you are never training again."
I shrug. "Eh." Sitting back, I watch my father oppose.
"Oh, but, Erica—she has to train, honey," Father says calmly.
Mother shakes her head. "No. No, she doesn't."
"But—"
"But buts, Lucius, and none for you either, Stonesia." Mother leaves the room with a breathy sigh and a door-slam.
Father looks at me and smiles a little bit. "You'll train," he says, and exits the room.
I look in my closet for something to wear to the reaping. The first thing I see is a frilly, too-too girly, pink dress on the door with a paper taped to with. In bold, giant, red letters, it says, "WEAR THIS, STONY."
Stony. That's what she called me when I was a little girl.
I purse my lips, not noticing it's exactly the way Mother did only moments before. I disregard the dress and look down at my saggy gray t-shirt, ripped and faded skinny jeans, and, like usual, combat boots. "Good enough," I mutter with a shrug, and march out of my room, into the hall. Throwing down the note I didn't realize I grabbed and clutched tightly, I let out puffy breaths and storm out of the house in a flurry, leaving behind Mother and Father, heading for the reaping.
Along the way, in a window, I see my reflection with the bright purple strip down my dark hair.
Is it worth it?
Silence would be here.
Yes.
…
Once the reaping has begun and people have fallen silent under the words of the mayor, Calla Lambay steps up to the stage, her curly pink wink falling in ringlets, her boots studded with pinkish diamonds, her outfit revealing and also pink. Unlike last year when she was pink, she has normal-colored—but tan—skin, and whiskers. She smiles at the crowd.
"Why, hello, citizens of District Two!" she cries into the microphone, her voice shrill. "We are gathered here today to reap the District Two tributes." Her smile is plastered, it seems, to her face permanently. "Shall we begin?"
She reaches into the bowl sitting delicately right next to her, pink and blue ribbon tied around it. She pulls out a name, opens it, and says, "Aelia Littleton!"
Aelia Littleton. Aelia was reaped! She was first person to volunteer. Was.
I smile and call out, "I volunteer!" I hurry up to the stage while others do the same. I am smaller than most trying to get up there so I can maneuver better. I'm also fast, determined, and willing to kick the person who gets up there before me right off the stage with a not-so-sweet, devilish smile. But I shove some boy out of the way and run up onto the stage.
"I," I announce quickly, taking a breath, "am Stonesia Zhunder."
"Well," says Calla. She claps. "Give it up for Stonesia!"
"It's Stone Zhunder, not Stonesia," I correct her, realizing I said Stonesia.
"But you said…"
"That's because it's my idiotic real name." I give a little smirk. "You'd understand, wouldn't you, Calla Lambay?"
Calla cocks her head, trying to figure out what I meant, but shakes it off. I contain a laugh and instead blandly smile.
"Alright. Now…" She reaches in the bowl again and calls, "Gea Andes."
I know who is going to volunteer. It was announced two days ago. So when Beck The-Idiot-Of-This-World Ferrari steps out from the eighteen-year-old section and shouts, "I'm a volunteer!" I'm not surprised.
He steps up, dark-as-night, messy, long black hair spit back in a slight, out-of-place on this sunny day breeze. His gray eyes stare back at me intensely, his dark skin not even daring to mask a scar from training—I remember that day; he screamed very loud with "anger" and "not at all pain"—and his muscles and his tallness doing him definite justice.
He may be an idiot, and I may want to kill him so hard for it, for surely he'll burden the Career pack, but when you're cute, you're cute. All there is to it.
It suddenly hits me what's going on when Beck brushes past me, obviously meaning to bump into me slightly. I am volunteering. I will soon—most likely—have fame, fortune. Everything. Nothing will ever stop me now.
With this is mind, I imaginarily sit back in a chair and watch the show.
Bet'cha a thousand dollars, crowd, that this next volunteer is third on the training rankings: Azaleigh Rommell.
And just as I imagined, Azaleigh Rommell, uninterrupted, steps up with a gloriously winning smile and looks straight forward. Not at me, not at Beck, not at Calla, and not at Mayor Duncan. She looks at the victors, as if she's announcing silently to them, right here and now, that she, Azaleigh Rommell, will sit next to them next year.
Oh, hell, no.
We're told to shake hands. I shake Azaleigh's, and then she shakes Beck's. When Beck shakes my hand, I can tell he holds it a little longer and a little tighter than he did for Azaleigh. I glare and whisper, very quietly, "I'll spit on you."
"Try me," he says.
And so I spit on his shoes and walk behind Calla, straight into the Justice Building, smiling triumphantly.
…
My mother pats me on the back.
My father hugs me.
Our last words together are:
"Be safe."
"I'm always safe."
Then I turn away and wait for them to leave.
D2- 18- (Beck Ferrari)
I stand in the eighteens' group, waiting impatiently for Aelia Littleton to go ahead and volunteer. She's next to me, wringing her hands, hoping she won't get reaped. Her pretty, long blond hair falls in her eyes. I lean over and push it back from her eyes. She looks up at me curiously. Then she smiles, and so do I.
"Everything'll be fine, A.," I say softly. "And, if it makes you feel any better, you're really pre—"
"Aelia Littleton!"
Aelia's mouth drops open at the sound of her name being called by Calla. She looks up at me worriedly, and I shrug, pat her shoulder, and move away. She's useless to me now.
"I am Stonesia Zhunder," says a small girl on the stage.
Oh, dear, I think, the Careers are doomed.
Everyone knows of Stonesia Zhunder just because she's the district pest. But, as I've observed, foolish. Easily fooled. I can use her.
I smirk her way, and even though she doesn't notice me, she will.
Oh, yes, she will.
D2- 16- (Azaleigh Rommell)
I file into my section with a grin and stare at my toes throughout the mayor's speech. As he rambles, I picture myself up on the stage. Not volunteering, but sitting with the victors, waiting for my tributes to volunteer. Waiting to take them to the Capitol and hopefully to see them come back so I can bring home two victors: them, and me.
But first, I must satisfy my father's every want.
I must volunteer.
"And now, may I introduce, Calla Lambay!"
"Why, hello, citizens of District Two!" Calla cries out. "We are gathered here today to reap the District Two tributes. Shall we begin?"
Calla pulls out the reaping slip with slim fingers, gracefully drawing a name from the large glass bowl. All I can think is, Don't reap me, don't reap me! I am third in all the rankings of eligible, older-than-fifteen trainees, and therefore I am to volunteer. Usually it's the top male and the top female, but since any three eligible people can go in, it's the top three of both genders combined.
"Aelia Littleton!" screeches Calla.
Instantly I know who she is. It's the girl who is at the very top of the class. But since she has been reaped, she is not allowed to volunteer. And she's eighteen. I almost feel bad.
Almost.
The next thing I know, a small girl - maybe fourteen, fifteen - is up on the stage saying, "I am Stonesia Zhunder." Her hair is short and choppy, as black as the night, with a bright purple strip bursting through the blackness. Her pointy nose is painted with a dash of freckles, and the rest of her skin is pale, almost ivory. Her eyes, wide-set, are sea green, and she can't be more than maybe five feet. Give or take a little.
"Well," Calla says, clapping. "Give it up for Stonesia!"
"It's Stone Zhunder, not Stonesia," Stonesia corrects her.
"But you said…"
"That's because it's my idiotic real name." Stone smirks. "You'd understand, wouldn't you, Calla Lambay?"
Was that...an insult? I wonder. It seems Calla doesn't know either.
"Alright. Now… Gea Andes."
I watch the dunce of a volunteer raise his hand and volunteer. Beck Ferrari. Ick.
Next up is me. Don't reap me, or I swear...
"Hestia Meghan!" says Calla.
I smile and listen to the silence. Not even a footstep falls on the gravelly ground. Everyone is waiting on - who? - me.
"I volunteer," I say quietly, but surely and firmly. I raise my voice now. "I volunteer!"
I run up to the stage and announce pridefully, "I am Azaleigh Rommell."
Stone shakes my hand. I quickly get my shake with Beck over and slip back.
...
My family enters first. My mother hugs me with a smile and my father congratulates me with a hand shake and something like a hug. My brother Terry pokes my shoulder.
"You're gonna be alright, right, Aza?" he says.
"Duh, you lug," I tell him, and mess up his hair, brown with blonde tips just like mine. But his bangs aren't dyed red like mine. I suppose that's something Stone and I have in color: dyed hair.
When the leave, my friends, Elizbet Orrin, Ryan Blaskey, and Bree Turley, enter.
Elizbet smiles. "You're so awesome!" she cries, and hugs me.
I smile back. "Thanks."
"You'd better be lucky Beck outdid me, Aza," brags Ryan, "or you'd be going down!"
"Suuuure, I would be," I giggle. "I could take you, Ry."
"No, you couldn't," he says, and I roll my eyes.
Bree is still silent.
And before she says anything, they're gone.
She is the only one of them who looks back.
A/N: So, D3 will come not so soon, as I don't have all the tributes.