Here is a brief chapter, there may be one more Capitol based chapter (unlikely) as I have received some Tributes and cannot wait to write their introductions- although I have decided every Tribute I write will receive a 'Pre-Games Chapter' to really help establish the characters and build the Panem I imagine.
And if you would like to submit a Tribute, please do, and the form is on my profile after someone pointed out that I had not posted it anywhere...
Crimson, Capitol Enforcer.
The man strapped to the chair before me is a sorry sight, or would be considered by most, with his body misshapen from hastily repaired broken bones. His pale skin having adopted a waxy sheen, his lips torn from what may have once been a handsome face-nothing but a gaping hole remains. As gory as the sight is, there is something beguiling about it. His teeth, the few remaining are chipped and coated in a sparse layer of dried blood: He is a work of art. But the piece remains incomplete: His eyes, a startling blue, still radiant defiance. They still shine with the last vestiges of hope, like a lit candle.
I am an artist of sorts, a renowned artist in the most secretive sects of Capitol society. Mistress has chosen me to complete this art piece: To extinguish the fire in his eyes and make him 'spill' the secrets he clings to so dearly. It's almost erotic, the meticulous way that Mistress uses language. Every word is chosen deliberately, and the thought of making this man 'spill' is more powerful than any aphrodisiac known to man.
"Good evening Sir, I look forward to working with you."
Stepping into the fluorescent lighting the man looks taken aback. I am sure that I cut a stark figure to his previous 'acquaintances': Burly men with their corded muscles. But I am only a fifteen year old girl, petite with snowy white hair and periwinkle blue eyes. He splutters momentarily, his forehead creasing in confusion and his eyes widening in pity.
Tittering in a girlish manner, I waltz into the room. The harsh white soundproof walls, the mirrored floor. He tries to follow my movements with his eyes, but he is secured to the chair. If I listen closely enough, I can hear his heartbeat stutter and I almost groan in ecstasy: His disbelief at seeing a young girl in the 'Interrogation Pod' is warring with something more basic- his animalistic instinct to flee when cornered by a superior predator.
"Don't be scared. We will make music."
Before he can register my words I lunge forward and thrust the dagger into the soft tissue below his ribcage. The sounds that tears through the silence is inhumane, a guttural scream melding with a fearful sob. Giggling to myself I head over the table where my tools lie, tracing the serrated edge of a knife I bask in the afterglow of slicing through his skin. The first brushstroke on my newest canvas.
I can feel a thrumming in my head, a music that plays only for me: The dance of death, but I refrain from ending this man's pitiful existence too soon. Mistress would be unhappy, and I cannot have an unhappy mistress. Before I fall into the haze of lust and violence I have an objective to complete. Taking up a small dagger I turn to my canvas who is attempting to breathe through the pain. A pointless endeavour.
"Now, all I need to know is everything you know about the Rebels. Do not presume to lie, I will know- and that little love tap I gave you is nothing compared to what I would do to someone who lied to me. We know the rebellion is still alive, in hiding and weakened but we know it's still there- so please, and I am asking ever so nicely, who is still involved in the futile effort?"
He stares into my eyes. Seeing hate, anxiety and still pity; He opens his mouth, or what remains of it, and spits on the floor. The yellow mucus is tinged with droplets of blood and I almost growl: The secretion being contaminated with blood means that this soul is not long for this world. Then I must work quickly, and so we dance.
I do not know how long I was immersed into the euphoric haze of making art, but my once pristine white dress is now crimson. The blood coating my hands is drying, the colour of rust, and I trace the pattern with my tongue savouring the coppery taste. My art work is complete, his intestines ripped free from their internal prison and used to choke the subject. Urine and faeces cover the floor, framing my masterpiece. Eyes gouged from their sockets, nails ripped from their beds: This is my finest work.
Mistress will be proud. I made him 'spill', I made him spill everywhere. I made him spill to the point that it would be hard to categorise this fresh corpse as even human. But that isn't what will make Mistress the proudest. Mistress will be proud as, before he 'succumbed' to my artistic talents, the subject gave me a name.
Andrea Pervelle, Freelance Journalist, Capitol.
Having been raised in the lap of luxury, it is pretty difficult for something to impress me with its sheer opulence. But that is not the case when it comes to Château de Rêves: The most exclusive restaurant in the Capitol which radiates a sense of luxury that even Capitolites, born and raised, would struggle to imagine.
From the crystal chandeliers which I would bet are made of the finest diamonds mined from District One, to the oak panelled walls and priceless pieces of art displayed sporadically throughout the establishment. It's not every day you are whisked to the finest venue in the Capitol, and more surprisingly at the behest of the President themselves.
Savouring the grapefruit undertones in the chardonnay, and how it contrasts with the sweetness of the maraschino cherry parfait I glanced around the decadent venue. I could definitely get used to this, and the delicate cadences of Beethoven's 'Moonlight Sonata', provides the perfect ambience- if only my 'date' was running on time. Glancing at my white gold watch, I note that the President is closing in on being five minutes late.
Of course, as a President you are allowed to be late- I dare not imagine what menial tasks the man is bedevilled with on a daily basis- but another glass of white wine is calling my name, and it would be considered uncouth to entertain the President of Panem while slurring my words. These are the true woes of the modern woman.
It's only a few minutes later, once I have finished the last of my mouth watering dessert when the man of the hour strolls into the restaurant with little to no fanfare. He is accompanied by only two Sergeants of the Peace, wearing the scarlet jumpsuits that set them apart from their delegates in the armed forces who don white uniforms. But my eyes are drawn to President Garrick Marsden.
He deserves a more than appreciative glance, with his navy suit tailored to perfection: Highlighting his trim waist and broad shoulders. I have never been one to be fooled by a pretty face but the President is a sight to behold, his classically handsome features unmarred by the elaborate cosmetic enhancements that are sweeping the Capitol. Green eyes, olive toned skin and angular features offset by his chiselled jaw. A handsome man, but one doesn't become the President of a Nation like Panem by simply being blessed in the genetics department, I have no doubts whatsoever that his handsome features belie an astute mind.
"Ah Miss Pervelle. I apologise for my tardiness; I have had an incredibly strenuous morning. How are you?"
He gestures to waiter to bring us a drink as his smooth baritone caresses every word. I would roll my eyes, but I am not foolish enough to antagonise someone in his position: It is evident that he is charming as well as handsome, a lethal combination when it comes to politics. I arrange my features into a mask of polite curiosity, being more than familiar with men who use honeyed words to further their agenda.
"I am wonderful sir, although you need not apologise. I understand that a man in your position has many responsibilities- some, inevitably, that you need to get back to. So let us not waste time with meaningless pleasantries, let us drink our wine and you can tell me why you requested this meeting?"
I realise that I may sound presumptuous, but that second glass of wine has loosened my tongue more than I had anticipated. But the President smiles broadly, his brow furrows for only a second before he chuckles and leans back into his chair: Relaxed posture, and deliberately showing me his palms. I was right, the man wants something.
"I come with a proposition. A proposition that I believe you are uniquely qualified for."
The enigmatic statement catches my attention, smiling pleasantly I play with the stem of my crystal glass. Watching him as he places his hands together in his lap, but he is watching me too.
"So this is a business meeting. If that's the case, what is this proposition? And please enlighten me as to how I am uniquely qualified."
I am a journalist of sorts, often interviewing famed Capitolites for CEN: But I could list another five journalists who are more experienced and have a much larger fan base than my own. My own fiancée, Augustus Flickerman, has recently hosted the CAFTA's to critical acclaim.
"I'll keep it brief. You've heard of the Hunger Games, and I was hoping you'd be the Mistress of Ceremonies. We considered Gus, but you have that special something I'm looking for: You are a woman of many talents. Be it your degree in Psychology, your published papers on 'Capitol and District Relations'. You're a relative newcomer to the entertainment scene, and these Games I tell you- they're a tradition in the making, and we want them hosted by someone 'fresh'"
He was laying on the charm a little thick, but he had researched me fully. It was alluring really; I was a newcomer to the entertainment scene and these Hunger Games would catapult me into a level of stardom I'd only ever dreamed about. I couldn't say that for certain, but something just told me that accepting this opportunity would change my life forever. I took another sip of my wine before smiling.
"I'm interested. So, tell me more of what this will entail?"
President Marsden smiles so brightly, his teeth glittering in the ambient lighting. He almost looks relieved, and that does wonders for my ego. As he opens his mouth to tell me more about becoming the Mistress of Ceremonies, I signal the waiter to bring a bottle. I feel like I deserve it after all, it's not every day you're personally plucked from obscurity by the President and handed an opportunity that will change your life.
So another two players are established- they have some fun plotlines awaiting them throughout the story. Rest assured that although there is a Capitol plotline, once I have introduced Tributes it becomes their story with the odd interlude here and there to update us on the Capitol and Panem in general.
I'd love a few more submissions if you can and I should be back this weekend with two Tributes I am incredibly excited to introduce you to. Any suggestions, questions or whatever- feel free to shoot me a PM.
-Nostalgic