The music swelled with every bit of energy and life put into its arrival but the blaring sound of Panem's opening horns not only threatened them past the screen with absolute dread, but there was some sort of distorted violin that accompanied the chorus of unexpected cheering and applause that made it downright disturbing. For some reason, Plutarch could tell that it was recorded in the past. The disjointed sequences of voices felt airily fake and too insincere. If he had to guess, it could have been taken straight from Caesar Flickerman's show, and their vigorous reaction was only dialed up to eleven for the point of blatant exaggeration.
The strings of the violin scratched around the anthem's harmony as if corrupting the very nature of the games (not that it wasn't before) as if pointing out the obvious by mercilessly reminding them of being vile, very vile people at their core. What once was a smoke screen for the Hunger Games to be seen as this honorific sports and entertainment festival, the broadcast delved further and mocked them for their former hypocrisy.
"Who do these people think they are?!" Royce Baltimore couldn't keep his offended expression hidden for more than five seconds. Not even to save his life, it would seem.
Not that even Plutarch could blame him for that, really.
The cheering went on for another solid minute and he experienced an unpleasant hot flash of memory with the Capitol welcoming the tributes during their introduction parade.
He doesn't know what sort of reaction the image of his 9-year-old son being shown off in a chariot to prepare him for a death match will elicit from him.
It still felt like it wasn't happening before his eyes but clearly it was — or will soon, anyway.
"...what on Earth—" Onyx Swandashon was not the only one who felt perturbed over the visuals that presented itself on screen.
Plutarch held onto his son's crown as it happened, clinging to it like it was Phill's and his own life on the line as he clasped it dearly near his chest, watching with morbid focus as the Capitol's emblem that was normally used for the games morphed differently than he imagined to be.
The people behind this wicked scheme clearly put in the effort in making their own statement. They replaced the eagle in the middle with that of a crown — reasonably speaking, it was shaped as a crown but the pointed edges were formed like castle towers and flagpoles.
Plutarch could partially appreciate the slight thought of creativity.
He shortly shook his head right after that.
Your son is about to be killed by these people! The least you could do is to NOT give them a five-star review for Graphic Design…
The circle used to entrap the artifact broke into a jagged crack formation, making the designer in him desperately wrack the meaning behind the ill-intentioned design. And instead of the adoring placement of two laurel wreaths on either side, what occupied their spot was eerily that of a hanging tree's branches with the only thing missing being the ropes to suspend the neck of a man suspected for the three murders.
Plutarch couldn't help but shudder at the choice.
The design was awfully deliberate…
What he thought was the last one was the Capitol's initial inside a small, mini circle just below the design. The crown above the letter C was replaced by either a knife or a sword (he couldn't quite tell) with the weapon instantly plunging the head of the letter and causing it to shatter as a result.
"...it's live all across the Capitol, you say?" Plutarch heard Paylor murmur next to Beetee. "And the Districts are getting the same thing, I assume?"
"Yes on the first one," Three's victor responded. He paused momentarily, and while it only lasted for half a second, it was enough to make Plutarch nervous before he continued. "...And no for the last one."
His response left him riddled with shock.
Briefly, he shared an apprehensive glance to his friend who couldn't exactly meet him in the eyes just yet.
"They're requiring something from us…" Beetee tried to explain, adjusting his glasses as he checked the messages from the other victors again on his communication device. There, he sent Plutarch a look. "I believe it has something to do with the crowns and the messages they've recently sent."
"What messages are you babbling about?" Osvaldo Starcourt inquired with limited patience. "Do you Districts insist on speaking in riddles? I'm convinced your words are very restricted because we fail to understand the point you're all trying to convey here!"
Plutarch's blood began to boil.
"I've mentioned it a while ago, did I not?" his tone was icy when he spoke. It certainly wasn't his intention to glare in the man's direction but it was too late to take it back, especially when he quickly obtained one in return. "You all need to prepare your sequences—"
"What worth does the crown hold?! They can't be that important!" Someone argued over the ever-growing tension that came from the massive cheering on screen. The volume had spiked up as several more parents joined in the chaotic amalgamation between the artifact's importance and some very, very unnecessary sundry points being thrown left and right.
Even President Paylor wasn't faring much better at keeping everyone emotionally stable, so to speak.
"You all need to hear him out!" Chairmane Cromwell ripped through the coalescence hissing and yelling that bounced back and forth inside the grand room where the live broadcast was taking place. "Plutarch Heavensbee is a former gamemaker and whoever took our children is too puzzling for us to understand their intentions!"
She met his eyes then, the coffee-colored shade of her glassy orbs was basically begging him for answers. "...we need his help in order to comprehend what they're planning to do with our children. So, please—" her lips wobbled as she uttered her daughter's name. "—set aside whatever animosity you have for the rebel. I need to see my Estee again…"
For a while, it worked.
Everyone simmered down at the grim reminder until Henley Creed decided that it was a brilliant idea to start riling them again.
"I seriously doubt he isn't somehow involved in this—"
"Another word and I will be forced to let my guards escort you out of the room, Mister Creed," Paylor was having none of it anymore. She shortly turned to Beetee, reserving the worrying glance only meant for him. "So, what you're saying is that they're communicating to us differently?"
"...I believe so," Beetee returned her uneasiness all the same.
"Haymitch mentioned about giving them accounts," Plutarch brought up casually, briefly joining the two over, at the same time, still keeping a sharp attention to the flickering broadcast happening on screen. "They're basically forcing them to participate in all this," his eyes slit precariously as the imposing screen started to glitch.
He held his inner panic pretty well whilst the other parents began to let out a noise of utter horror as the symbol oozed wicked trails of blood. It trickled from the top in a nasty thin droplet, staining the crown below the fragmented cracks of the circle and down more on the Capitol's broken initial. Before anyone could say anything, the Horn of Plenty erupted in full force.
The changed lyrics engulfed them with a strange kind of coldness no fire would be able to bring such comfort again.
Oh, Horn of Plenty…
The Seek for Blood overflows,
Panem shall fall below,
Panem shall fail below,
May our nation never forget,
The Seek for Blood overflows—
The short phrases repeated on a loop, chanting in these barbaric and distorted voices that desire the repugnant want for revenge. Even Plutarch's fingers were frosty, the crown near his chest felt heavy, and his breathing was coming in short, strained gasps that left him completely rattled. He brought the artifact closer for inspection. At this rate, the blinking lights were mocking him.
Why does it have to be his son to be punished? Why not him instead?
Maybe this is how they have decided to punish you…
"God…"
It was expected for someone to have a mental breakdown beside him at that point.
"A-Are we actually tuning this in?" Mykel Asquith wasn't doing much better than him. He scrambled from where he was so he could desperately get a hold of a chair to keep his balance. It only took Plutarch one look to know that he wasn't far off from collapsing the next second if Paylor and the rest simply left him to his own devices. "H-How could you bear this?" he gestured for the screen where the abominable broadcast was still developing. "H-How could anyone bear this?"
"If we still won't get information about our children then I will have no other choice but to let my office shut them down immediately," Plutarch offered, continuing to endure the worst of it. "...I apologize, but we'll have to let them walk all over us for a while considering that they have our kids. Who knows," The bags beneath his eyes were obvious at this point. "Maybe they're purposely keeping the most interesting parts of the broadcast at the very end."
"May I suggest that everyone get their crowns ready," Beetee was a little hesitant to add. After one of the parents berated them, he proceeded with more caution and gave profound advice. "I highly recommend that the rest of you decode whatever sequences you've been given."
"...the analysts were able to decipher some of them already," Paylor provided right after, examining the screen with a thorough investigation. "I kept them on standby despite my doubt. It wasn't what I was expecting," she glanced at Plutarch's way, a brow arching quizzically. "Are yours randomly arranged like that?"
"We have a working theory that they could be a serial number for something," Plutarch mumbled, massaging the bridge of his nose as the anthem made another round of repetition meant to spook them.
Paylor's face felt like it had aged ten years upon hearing his reasoning.
"Why do you think that, exactly? What are they—"
The abrupt cut-off seized all of their attention.
The screen was briefly spasmed with colorful stripes meant to portray that they lost signal when it briskly changed.
Timothee Yarwood was the first to break.
"Emerald! Oh my God—" The man was tripping over himself as he ran near the screen, shoving the parents aside with no care and regard for their well-being. Paylor motioned for the guards to keep a watch on him, as she too, neared the broadcast but with a much more calming demeanor despite the recorded video of a bleeding 17-years-old being showcased not only in front of them but to the entirety of the Capitol, if she's not mistaken.
Plutarch's own heart made a sudden leap to his throat at the implication.
...the boy was the first to go missing.
Coin's words drifted to his head like flowing water, drowning him with fierce and unbearable coldness.
Emerald Yarwood was abducted at 1:01 a.m. early morning, followed by the girl next, Sara Goldcross. She was taken an hour later at 2:02 a.m…
While knowing the order of how each child was kidnapped, the intent behind the passing hour couldn't have been clearer. He wearily eyed the Goldcross family across the room from him. If his hunch was correct (he gets the feeling that it is), then he's prepared to warn them in case their daughter is up next after the boy.
"He's bleeding!" Timothee cried against the hold of the guards that kept him at bay, afraid that he may somehow lash at the screen because of his emotional turmoil. "He's cut himself! Those monsters made him cut himself—"
Plutarch couldn't help but wince from the way the teenager was grasping a throwing knife in his right hand. It was obvious the boy did not know how to hold one, let alone accurately aim with deadly precision for the targets that were all lined in place several feet away from him. There were already a number of used knives strewn across the floor, in which none painfully came close to hitting home.
So they've done the training sessions these last three days?
Plutarch calculated with dread.
There were no announcements or updates whatsoever. While he and the parents were losing their minds from the 4th all the way to the 7th, their children's training was already ongoing without their notice.
God. What did his Phill even train with? What will his 9-year-old son even do to scrape a manageable score?!
Plutarch resorted to just accepting the inevitable low rate his child will get.
…he's better off not being targeted, anyway.
He got used to the exposure from earlier tributes in the past, especially those who resided in Districts One and Two. They were such gifted and lethal users with the weaponry given to them as if it's become an extension of themselves, certainly a far cry from the inexperienced Capitol seventeen-year-old boy, who was bleeding profusely for having held the throwing knife incorrectly, thus explaining the bleeding.
Upon having further reviewed the screen, Plutarch let his eyes roam around the scoring system that was placed on the border showcasing Emerald Yarwood.
Tribute 001
Emerald Yarwood (17)
Father: Timothee Yarwood
Mother: Elsher Vanse Yarwood
Skills presented:
Knife Throwing
Spear Wielding
On a scale of 1-12, how would you rate Tribute 001?
Dead (score between 1-3):
Not so dead (score between 4-6):
Worth rooting for (score between 7-9)
This one's a winner, folks! (score between 10-12):
Results gathered from the Voting Polls:
Ranging from 1-3: TBA
Ranging from 4-6: TBA
Ranging from 7-9: TBA
Ranging from 10-12: TBA
"...who is scoring them?" Chairmane Cromwell questioned over Timothee's ever-frantic yelling. It wasn't like they had an abundant number of gamemakers (aside from the lone rebel) to score their children. It was their job formerly, after all.
Plutarch wanted to answer but the words were stuck in his throat.
"...us," Beetee's voice croaked at first, feeling uncomfortable to be the one to announce it out loud. He mustered enough strength to face the withering and sullen looks of the parents.
"They want us…the Districts…to score them individually."
Plutarch wished that at least someone would have sobbed instead of the very empty and dead reaction the room emanated.
Another problem presented itself when the opacity of the screen darkened.
The voting system is currently locked behind a passcode requiring 9 digits.
—
"What the hell is happening now?!"
Effie held the drunken victor back from hurling a chair towards their only working television. While she was not made an account by the anonymous people who had kidnapped the children, the former escort was still highly upset, like the rest of them were, when all of their voted scores have all been outright denied.
In order to score Tribute zero-zero-one, please make sure to input the serial number first.
Now, you don't have to manually apply this for District Three is already assigned to unlock the security pass so that everyone can be allowed to vote—
"They're asking us for a passcode…" Peeta said tiredly, looking at the screen with silent glowering contempt. "It was easier when they would just announce it on television."
"Yeah? Well, I have a feeling they're not exactly making it easy on purpose."
Haymitch spat, backing away from the broadcast of a struggling seventeen-year-old Capitol child, who by any means, did not possess the same level of skill as Careers when it came to using a sundry of knives and spears.
It was pathetic watching the teenager even make an attempt on his part. But what else could the boy do, really?
"...what happens if he doesn't get a score?" Katniss grimly brought up beside Peeta, her knee bouncing in trepidation for the potential consequence if they're unable to rate him on time.
Her sharp, ashen seam-like eyes scanned the countdown needed for all the Districts to give their votes. It ran for 60 seconds at least, but now it's down to 40.
"It won't come to that," Peeta tried to assure her, looping an arm around to pull her close by the shoulder so he could plant a comforting kiss on the side of her forehead. "They all need scores, Katniss. I doubt the people behind this won't give them any—"
"But it's up to us to give them something!"
The girl practically leaped from the couch, abrasively disregarding Peeta's one-sided embrace.
"Katniss, dear—" Effie attempted to calm her down but none of her efforts were acknowledged. She was pacing ahead of them, far too erratic to control or comfort.
"What's taking District Three so long?!" she exclaimed once the remaining time was down to 33 seconds. "I…I can't have him be punished if it came down to it—"
"They won't do anything to him," Peeta was quick on his feet, gently turning her over so that he could meet her wild and frantic eyes. "It's like before where they needed to stop Cato from hurting that kid. Do you remember that?" he cupped her cheeks tenderly with his palms, pressing his forehead against hers. "...he thought his knife got stolen. That was before the games and he wasn't allowed to lay a hand on him because all the fighting would be saved for the arena."
"They could still hurt him…" Katniss argued stubbornly. "These people…I don't think they're beyond hurting them at the very least," hesitantly, she leaned into his touch, enjoying the warmth his skin radiated. "They're hardly any better."
"That I can agree with," Haymitch nodded at them as he lunged for another bottle, unscrewing the cork aggressively with his teeth. He barely got a taste as Effie's swift and precise fingers immediately took it from his trembling grasp.
"You need to be sober for this, Haymitch!" The former escort declared, dragging the wine bottle away from his insistent hands.
"...no, I don't think I should be," he tried to reach for it again but Effie was far faster than him, with her being in much, much better health and not occasionally reduced to tremors. Not to mention, she was also not thirsting obsessively after alcohol in her spare time.
Eventually, Haymitch gave up, throwing his hands into the air with his usual grunt of disapproval.
"God!" he burst out with a horrid screech, startling the two other star-crossed lovers in the room with them. "Whose brilliant idea was this—"
His telephone blared next, intensifying his growing headache. Effie informed Peeta and Katniss to keep an eye on him. She kept a finger raised in warning if he ever tries to do anything before proceeding to pick up the phone herself.
"Hello—"
"When the fuck do we get to vote?!" Johanna Mason was already dead set on turning her completely deaf from the other end of her line. "There's barely 30 seconds left!"
"Please watch your temper, Miss Mason—" Effie clicked her tongue in distaste, instantly keeping the phone a good inch away from her now sensitive ear as seventh's victor continued to chew her off as if this was something her doing.
"I believe that we're all experiencing the same technical difficulty over here!" Effie shot back over Johanna's onslaught of curses aimed at her for some reason. However, when she showed no signs of stopping, the escort's usual politeness had all but left her. "If you continue to be this barbaric! I might as well hang up—"
"...you still got your kids, right?" came Seven's victor's surprisingly timid response.
Effie tapped the phone impatiently, biting her lips as she eyed the staircase that led to their children's bedroom.
It was eerily quiet.
"...yes," she could hear the relieved sigh that the estranged woman released from over the phone. "Ramona and Adryan are safe here in Twelve. We got out of the Capitol on the evening of July fourth," she winced when she was reminded that the kidnappings went on until 11:59 p.m.
Effie did not want to think of the possibility if she did not leave early that day.
"Good."
She could appreciate Johanna's subtle care for her children at least. Effie watched the growing tension that affected her victors in their living room. Katniss and Peeta were holding each other as the countdown went to plummet downwards. She particularly kept her gaze on Haymitch, who was reduced to relentless pacing now. He met her eyes after stopping briefly for a while, but then he directed his attention back to the screen and paced madly again.
How could the people behind this even think that the Districts would be on their side? Bringing this back has only ever caused their traumas to resurface—
"...I don't actually mean to vote yes for the Symbolic Hunger Games or whatever…"
Effie blinked after Johanna's response. She couldn't find the right words to say at that moment but the woman decided to fill in for her silence instead.
"I was angry…and hurt…and in so much pain! I just—" Effie clung to the phone when her garbled voice echoed regretfully in place. "I've thought about it before…" She could hear the light sound of sniffles coming from the other end. "...and now th-that it's happening—I don't know—"
"Johanna," The former escort interrupted, her voice soft and forgiving. "It's alright to wish that. I know that you don't really mean it…"
"I voted for it to happen, you know?" she reminded her gravely, scoffing soon with a broken laugh. "I remember Abernathy and Everdeen saying yes too but that was because brainless could have a shot at killing that bitch who offered the stupid idea in the first place."
Effie's lips immediately became tightly sealed at the mention of District Thirteen's ex-President.
Of course, no one this far off in the Districts actually knows what happened to her. For all they care about, Alma Coin was already dead and buried beneath the ground. Only a few closely knit circles of people, including herself and Haymitch, know of her current whereabouts and status.
How could Effie exactly miss out on the juicy secret she had that was still actively going smoothly with Plutarch Heavensbee? For Christ's sake! his wedding ring did not spell subtlety correctly! She remembered being slightly peeved that the former gamemaker at least had the sense to put an effort into their very hushed engagement when she saw what he was wearing for the first time.
While Haymitch didn't prepare anything that grand for her, Effie at least enjoyed the hot steamy sex they had in exchange.
Still.
It was left to her imagination for having to fill in the blanks herself, what — with Coin's design presumably befitting Plutarch's last name while his wedding band defined hers.
She realized too late that she was swooning.
"The fuck are you moaning about, Trinket?" Johanna hissed audibly after her silent daydreaming. "Don't tell me you're eager for another Hunger Games to take place!"
"O-Of course not!" she stuttered horribly, momentarily embarrassed for getting accused that she would be bloodthirsty for the anticipated deaths of Capitol Children. "I was just thinking of s-something else—"
Effie stopped after having sensed the death in the room.
It felt like time had slowed down, all the while, speeding too fast as the countdown that would allow the Districts to vote was nearing zero.
"Look…Annie and I will reach out again, alright?" Johanna's voice seemed to have gone over her head as the sickening number of 9 went down to 8, then to 7, then to 6, and then to 5—
There was no passcode for them to unlock so they could vote.
Emerald Yarwood would have no score.
"Ladies and Gentlemen," Haymitch interrupted the grim atmosphere with a dark humorless laugh, spreading his arms to the side as if welcoming back the existence of the Hunger Games.
"...may the odds be ever in your favor."
—
"I—I don't have the code! Stop asking me already!"
Plutarch was this close to having shaken the man around his collar. The countdown was approaching the end and Emerald Yarwood desperately needed to be tended to based on the amount of blood that was gushing from his hand at an alarming rate.
"The crown! Timothee—" Plutarch growled instead, keeping both his dwindling patience and temper in check. "Where did you put your son's crown?! It was blinking in Morse code withholding the needed pass for the Districts to vote!"
He turned to Paylor as a last resort.
"Were the analysts able to decode his token?!"
Their President opened her mouth at the same time Yarwood's answer came and just about doomed him and his own son.
"...it's gone," The fight and stubbornness at being probed just about left him that instant.
It didn't stop Plutarch from marching towards him, anyway. He heard Paylor call for the guards to restrain him when his fingers curled around Timothee's shirt collar.
"What do you mean it's gone?"
"It's gone!" the man hiccupped pathetically and Plutarch had to shake him in order to get a proper explanation. "I threw it away in a lake somewhere! Alright?!" he cried out, locking his own hands around the gamemaker's in a futile attempt to make him stop. "B-Baltimore said that they were mocking us! And I was so angry! I just…"
When he turned to glance at Royce Baltimore, the raging man from before decided that it was the best time to admire Paylor's wallpapers and collection of furniture, his very own crown already by his side.
"... Can't I just use your c-code instead?" Timothee begged him with an unusual request, his lips quivering at being aware of the remaining seconds his son needed to be evaluated.
"I don't think it works that way…" Plutarch released his hold on him.
"Can we try at least?!" Now, he was the one getting too close to the former gamemaker's face. "There's no clear instructions to this! Maybe yours work just as fine!"
He regarded him with total uncertainty.
There's no guarantee that it will.
Yet, who are you to deny a father to put in the effort to save his own son?
His fingers grabbed hesitantly for Phill's own blinking crown. He couldn't stop the tremors in his hands the same way Haymitch is unable to keep his withdrawal at bay in the past.
Let him try…at least your own son is safe once it's his turn to be evaluated.
"...alright," Plutarch nodded weakly at him before directing his full attention to Beetee Latier. "Go ahead. Input my sequence; 7MJHSP013."
Three's victor shared a debatable look before proceeding to inform his District to insert the code. The people behind the hijacking of broadcasts had District Three be the one to unlock everyone's accounts when it came to scoring the Capitol children.
The whole system was built oddly but there were very few things they could do to maneuver around the insane and villainous requests demanded of them. They didn't want to risk aggravating the children's kidnappers after all.
Both Plutarch and Beetee gave each other the same tired and knowing looks when an announcement was made after the passcode was rejected.
Sorry.
The serial number that you applied is incorrect. Please make sure that the serial number you are applying is the correct one before you try again.
The third sentence promptly caused all of them to go still.
A third mistake would have your tribute's odds reduced once they are sent to the arena.
"...th-there's an arena?" Sashalynn Rivera was the first one to break out of her reverie. "W-Well, what's it going to be, you think?" Plutarch genuinely felt disturbed by her questionable excitement at the prospect of a proper Hunger Games occurring. "Oh! A tropical island would be nice! Wouldn't it? My husband and I taught our little Fynnick how to swim like a shark! Didn't we, Lyle?"
"Can you set aside your obsession with Finnick Odair already?" Henley Creed snapped heavily at them. "We get it! You were obsessed with the handsome lad but he was 14 when he won his games. If I'm not mistaken, your son basically just turned 11!"
Plutarch wasn't sure which was Sashalynn's facade. The one who secretly liked the possibility of her son shining like Finnick Odair inside the arena or the one whose face broke apart again for having been reminded of his very young age for participating in a death match.
"W-We can get him sponsors! Right?" She turned to her husband but the man looked like he was out of it. "It's certainly within our budget to get him a golden trident," she waved them off with a smile, her expression shifting again. "That would be delightful—"
"What about my son!" Timothee Yarwood strained to get the remaining families' sympathy as his Emerald only has less than 5 seconds before permanently having no score at all. "The c-code didn't work! The Districts didn't vote! W-What do we—"
Plutarch inhaled sharply from the way the scoring system swiftly changed its color to burning red. Paylor was right beside Timothee at that point, rubbing the poor man's shoulder while also keeping tabs on the current update on the screen.
On a scale of 1-12, how would you rate Tribute 001?
Dead (score between 1-3): X
Not so dead (score between 4-6): X
Worth rooting for (score between 7-9): X
This one's a winner, folks! (score between 10-12): X
Results gathered from the Voting Polls:
Ranging from 1-3: Unfulfilled
Ranging from 4-6: Unfulfilled
Ranging from 7-9: Unfulfilled
Ranging from 10-12: Unfulfilled
"S-So, w-what score do I get?" Despite his bleeding hand and the painful grimace that he portrayed on screen, Emerald Yarwood still held a very cocky smirk in place, his lips stretching eagerly despite the obvious way the corner of his mouth twitched.
Timothee let out a peculiar laugh at his son's antics.
"H-He's holding it together!"
However, the incoming announcement almost made him and the other parents almost collapse on the spot.
The inability to score a tribute on time will result in a flat score of 0.
Tributes with low scores, such as getting an immediate 0, will have to be mutilated in preparation for the Royale Capitol Games.
"...m-mutilated?" Someone repeated like a broken audio record. Jeremyah Stoneshire went to see the reactions of the other parents, making sure that he wasn't the only one hearing it that wrongly.
Based on their deathly expression, the statement he heard was, in fact, correct.
"Th-They're mutilating him over that?!" Royce Baltimore had his eyes almost bulging out of his sockets. "This is madness!"
Even President Paylor was frantic, but she still kept a weird sense of control and a certain calmness to her as she tried to assess the situation. She was off to make calls in case the broadcast can be traced back.
As being her Secretary of Communications, that would be his job to analyze, but the amount of shock that Plutarch's own body was undergoing was phenomenally too much to handle. He felt light-headed and was in a cold sweat. His hold on the artifact was clammy and if someone were to even gently tap him to get his attention, he would either collapse or lash out. Unfortunately, there was no in between.
If it was possible for him to have a cardiac arrest, then no sooner would he have had it right then and there.
Tributes with low scores, such as getting an immediate 0, will have to be mutilated in preparation for the Royale Capitol Games.
The announcement filled his head like a swarm of tracker jackers stinging him into oblivion.
Not only a score of zero would have them be mutilated but the ones who would get the scores ranging from 1-3 would have the same treatment as Emerald Yarwood. And what of those ranging from 4-6? Did those people consider it low? He would say that was average based on his years of providing scores to past tributes as a former gamemaker. The problem was that it was categorized by the demented people as the Not-so-dead category — whatever that means!
And what did the announcer say?
The Royale Capitol Games?
Was that their running theme or something?
Ridiculous.
They're already running with their own off-brand version of the Hunger Games.
"—we need to find them," came Paylor's stern order. She made her way over to him, barely masking the panic evident on her face. "Do you have any inkling where they could be? Perhaps what arenas they could be using?"
"...my focus went to the sequence the second I realized that it was in Morse code," Plutarch murmured quietly, keeping Phill's crown close to his chest. "Although, I can start a thorough investigation right away…"
Paylor narrowed her eyes upon detecting the hesitation in his voice. "What is it?"
"My wife and I solved the meaning behind the kidnappings recently," Plutarch replied with a worn-out expression. "Seeing that Emerald Yarwood has been identified as Tribute zero-zero-one, the girl would likely be next, I assume."
Paylor's eyes shrank in realization. "Sara Goldcross? She's the next one to be scored?"
"She's the second tribute if my hunch is right," he shrugged at her. "They were kidnapped the same way tributes were reaped on reaping day. Alternatively…with the boy having been abducted first."
"Plutarch—" his sole attention was back to his son's artifact.
He was lost inside his own thoughts by that point, absent-mindedly tracing after the crimson lights the jewels emanated. Plutarch wasn't really there when Paylor was desperately probing him for more information. His own mind was gone, already drifting off to the world of mathematics as he did a thorough calculation of his son's odds against the other children. Two decades of being a gamemaker made him search for potential weaknesses concerning the other kids. He didn't want to investigate the result if it so happens that only one of them will be coming out alive.
If this really was the Hunger Games…then I want it to be my son.
Plutarch chided himself at how fast he was slipping back to sacrificing children so he could gain the upper hand.
This time, however, he wasn't pushing them deep into a meat grinder for a noble cause. It was his own selfish desire as a father to want his Phill to win and come back home with him.
He feels the nonexistent eyes of a father, a mother, a sibling, all staring him down in the darkened abyss while he drowned in the blood of all the children he had formerly killed in the arenas. While his hand on their deaths wasn't always direct, being a former game maker barely spared him from the blame.
Was this how their ghosts were seeking revenge on him?
Now you know what it feels like…
He shuddered at the cruelty his conscience was displaying.
Was it bad that he couldn't even remember who his first kill was? Blood baths were often messy and pinpointing the first child to die was like trying to find a specific sandstone across an entire beach.
"Plutarch," Paylor adamantly called for his wavering attention again, even snapping her fingers near his eyes and making him jump from the sound it caused.
"What are their orders?" The bright woman tipped his chin so that he could meet her smooth, stygian and marbled orbs that carried a deep sympathy towards his current situation. "Are they numbered from the way they were kidnapped?"
"...yes," he responded slowly, as if still not there, his mind elsewhere.
He could feel the coldness of the ghosts penetrating the barriers he put up after the years piled overtime when he took the mantle of a gamemaker. Even mentally, he had to endure such a thing. He was a traitor to some. A scum in the Capitol's eyes, a renegade to a few rebels, his own wife had considered him to be the lowest of the low for a time when she thought he abandoned her when an assassination attempt was made on impulse.
"Sara Goldcross could be identified as Tribute zero-zero-two. She would be scored right after Emerald Yarwood I believe—" Plutarch forgot to maintain the volume of his voice when he distinctly heard the awful gasps and horror that escaped from the Goldcross family.
They were standing just a few feet away from them.
"O-Our Sara is next?" her mother almost fainted.
Paylor ground her teeth in quiet frustration.
"Get their serial number from the analysts! The tiara for the Goldcross were one of the first ones to be decoded," she practically hissed towards her guards, where two of them immediately sprang to retrieve the code from the investigators occupying the other room across from theirs.
It was only when the guard ran past her door that Paylor changed her mind. "You know what? Transfer them all here! There's enough room for a few more investigators. We will make sure that every code will be solved on time. The next one lined up will have first priority," she shifted her attention to Beetee, who mirrored the same equal disturbance in his eyes.
"We need the Districts to score them higher. Preferably past the range between 4 and 6 just to be safe…" Paylor told him with worry, slightly shivering if any of the kids were to be given low scores again.
Worse.
If they're unable to input the serial number on time—
"They'll mutilate them if we don't."
"We can do that," Three's victor spoke with a hollowed-out voice. "I'm sure the Districts are shaken as they are," he gestured to the remaining twenty-three families who were all sharing the same unpleasant meltdown. "No one deserves that…especially a kid to be mutilated for having no score."
Timothee Yarwood had become non-functioning.
One could easily mistake him for an Avox as he sat mutely on the floor, his empty gaze fixated on nothing in particular over the wailing sound of the other parents that surrounded him.
"...we'll make sure to give your kid a higher score," Beetee assured his friend, worried that he might turn out like Timothee this early during the scoring process. Plutarch looked too pale in his eyes as if both color and life were drained from him. "You already have your serial number," he added with an eager nod to his crown, hoping to at least lift a few of his spirits up.
"You can leave the rest to us. We'll keep him safe."
"...but he isn't safe."
Paylor softened over his pain and offered a hand to pat him comfortingly on the back.
"It was unfair to have Emerald Yarwood mutilated simply because we were unable to unlock the passcode on time. My deepest sympathies and regret go to Timothee…" The President felt awful at having failed the man who was now in a catatonic state on her floor. She needed to have him be treated with psychiatric help as soon as she can while also giving him updates on his son.
"Phillyeus, was it?" Paylor ran the name of Plutarch's child on her tongue, attempting to make his sullen mood slightly less sullen.
"He's a bit of a wild card…" she remembered the dark crimson hair of his son when she spied him filling buckets of moldy paint to get back at his classmates. The boy claimed that they kept throwing dirty accusations toward his father.
It certainly was an impression when she visited his school one day, only to learn that mostly everyone, and she means everyone — with the teachers, the staff, the passersby! Even the older students have marked him as a known delinquent.
They could not have said it better when a particular science lab was burned down on the same day of her visit because of a firework prank having gone wrong.
And who was to blame?
All fingers were immediately pointing to Phillyeus Von Heavensbee.
"He's still 9…" Plutarch argued with a wavering voice, clutching the crown like it was his lifeline.
He was right.
Despite the erratic behavior of his son, he was still a child by the end of the day.
Paylor tried not to point out that his boy was the youngest out of the male tributes that were kidnapped. It was bad enough that there was a 7-year-old girl that was forced to participate in the Hunger Games as well—
Everyone went still again as a wheel popped up once the scoreboard was replaced on screen.
At least the change elicited a reaction from Timothee Yarwood, but it was no better than his unresponsive state.
"Dear God—" Lyle Rivera leaned against his wife for support as his legs turned to jello.
Wheel of misfortune
Right hand
Left eye
One toe
Two fingers
He wasn't the only one who almost puked at the wheel containing options for which body part needed to be mutilated from Emerald Yarwood.
The wheel spun, filling everyone with bone-chilling dread when it kept rolling with unpredicted speed.
"I—I don't get a s-score?" They could hear the teenager scoff at the absurdity of whoever was communicating with him in the room. Plutarch didn't know why the boy was unbothered by his bleeding hand despite having grasped it intensely with his left, attempting to stop the bleeding.
Was he even aware that he was about to be mutilated?
"S-So I've been th-throwing knives and spears for n-nothing?!"
They watched as Timothee Yarwood collapsed again, apologizing for having thrown away the crown that withheld the passcode.
"Oh, I can't watch this—" Chairmane Cromwell hid behind her hands just when the wheel stopped spinning.
Plutarch wished he did what she did.
Tribute zero-zero-one will lose his left eye before entering the arena.
Let it be a reminder that your crowns and tiaras carry the serial number needed to unlock the pass so that the Districts can be allowed to vote. We will not be held accountable if you lose it.
"C-Can't we just cut off the broadcast?!" Osvaldo Starcourt marched over to him unannounced. "You're in charge of Communications, are you not? You program airwaves and the likes of that!"
Plutarch only regarded him in silence. Truth be told, he isn't sure how to respond. When he turned to look at Paylor and Beetee, the two also didn't know either it seemed.
"Shut off the broadcast!" Osvaldo declared with unmatched insistence.
As much as he wanted to, he needed news of his son's whereabouts. The crown felt heavy in his hands.
"...there could be consequences if we—"
"I don't care!"
"Mister Starcourt—" Paylor tried to interrupt but the man was not having it.
"I will not have my son's life be left to the Districts' devices!" He glared particularly at Beetee and even at the President's direction.
As if observing the commotion happening within the room, another announcement was made.
This time, it was a threat.
Any effort to block and or interrupt this broadcast will result in more unnamed mutilation.
Any more effort in hinting your defiance to participate will end with the children's abrupt deaths — therefore, ending the Royale Capitol Games a bit earlier than expected.
We are not above speeding up that process.
Of course, we assume that none of you really want that, would you?
It felt like the announcer was becoming more aware by the second, indefinitely losing their neutral persona by appearing apathetic before.
Your choice.
The screen glitched and the grim symbol of the jagged castle crown with twisted branches of the hanging tree was back in place. The messed-up version of the Horn of Plenty blared loudly after the last announcement.
Please stand by for the scoring of Tribute zero-zero-two…
And as always…
Despite the minor tweak in the last line, it still punctuated just how clearly doomed their children were.
May the odds ever grant you their favors.