President Coriolanus Snow
Katniss never intended to eat the nightlock berries; that much was obvious. I watched as she hesitated for a mere second until Peeta bit down on the berries. In an impulsive act of guilt, she quickly spilled her handful into her mouth and closed it. The horror filled her eyes in seconds as she hunched over and spat the chewed berries onto the ground, coughing and retching in terror. Yet, her realizations were a few seconds behind Peeta's.
I waved my hand and paused the clip, taking in the frame of Katniss and Peeta twisted and full of regret in their death throes. That was where we stopped broadcasting, a few seconds before the Tributes of District 12 died. No cannons, no mourning, no Victors. Rations to District 12 were restricted, and Katniss and Peeta's close friends and families were executed, and any mourning of the pair was forbidden. It did little to stop the pair from being martyred and sparking small riots in the District. The Capitol had shown its weak spot, that even we couldn't force the Tributes to win.
I turned to Lucius Gaels, a man in his mid-fifties with curly brown hair and small silver eyes, who watched the screen with pursed lips and a small glass of whiskey in his right hand. He wouldn't have been my first choice for head Gamemaker, far more suited to a role such as the master of ceremonies, but he was loyal to the Capitol with fine ideas and a patriotic streak. I could trust him, at the very least.
"Lucius, as you can see, the 74th Hunger Games presented us with... unforeseen challenges," I paused, letting the weight of my words hang in the air. "Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark's act of defiance not only threatened the very fabric of our society but also exposed vulnerabilities in our control over the Districts."
Lucius nodded, understanding the gravity of the situation, "Yes, Mr. President. Their actions have indeed stirred unrest, an undesirable outcome for us all."
I felt my gaze harden, "This year's Quarter Quell presents us with an opportunity—a chance to not only regain control but to reshape the narrative in our favor. Your role, Lucius, is pivotal in this endeavor."
Lucius leaned forward, a mixture of eagerness and caution in his demeanor as a sharp smile spread across his small lips, "I've given much thought to this year's twist, Coriolanus." He paused for a moment, seemingly trying to calm his excitement. "Allowing a pair of tributes to claim victory together can be seen as an act of mercy from the Capitol. It's a direct response to last year's finale, demonstrating our flexibility and benevolence."
"Such a thing only breeds hope, the opposite of what we need to calm the riots. It needs to be about reasserting our control, subtly reminding the districts of their place, and ensuring that no tribute dares to defy us as Everdeen and Mellark did again."
Lucius looked slightly annoyed and, with a deep breath, continued, "To amplify the impact, we'll focus on pairing tributes not just randomly, but with the potential for... romance. It's clear the Capitol and the districts were captivated by the 'star-crossed lovers' from District 12. We aim to recreate that magic, to enchant our audience once more while maintaining the veneer of control."
I felt my lips curl into a semblance of a smile, "And in doing so, we make Everdeen and Mellark the villains of their own story, painting their 'sacrifice' as a selfish act that nearly robbed the districts of their champions."
"Exactly," Lucius added, "and by selecting tributes with the greatest potential for these... narratives, we manipulate the odds in our favor. We may even need to ensure that more sixteen to eighteen-year-olds are chosen this year, ensuring a higher probability of compelling stories emerging." It was always dangerous to rig the reapings in any form. However, due to the rebellious nature of the Districts at the moment, I had already ordered for each Tribute to be pre-selected. We were already ensuring that the twenty-four Tributes chosen had no rebel ties; it would not be difficult to play matchmaker to some extent.
I gave a nod, satisfied with his proposal, "And let's not forget, Lucius, the importance of making an example out of Seneca Crane. His failure serves as a stark reminder to you and your team of the consequences of... oversight."
Lucius straightened, the weight of responsibility—and threat—clearly understood, "Understood, President Snow. The Games will not only entertain but will reaffirm the Capitol's dominion. The narrative will be controlled, and the districts will fall in line. They may think that they are winning, but that is far from the truth."
Snow concluded, "Do not disappoint me, Lucius. The future of Panem rests on the success of this year's Games. Ensure they are unforgettable."
Kit Sallow, aged 18 District 6 Male.
There were a lot of reasons to look forward to turning eighteen. Final year in the Reaping, graduating school, first year you are forced to do full-time back-breaking labor. For me, it was graduating from apprentice to full-time undertaker. I know, not everyone's idea of a good time but it beat building trains for the Capitol. The District was full of riots; they destroyed a portion of our food supply in an act of misplaced defiance, so the elderly, young, and sick were dropping like flies. In other words, business was good.
I cleared my throat as I reached the door of a small shack on the outskirts of District six, putting on my sympathetic expression. It was a small one-story building with maybe one or two rooms at most. On the door, the homeowners had attached a small black square of cloth to signify to the undertakers that they had a dead loved one that needed to be collected. Sometimes a neighbor would do it, and the person was alone in this world, but I could tell by the tear-stained face of the woman who answered that this man was deeply cared for. The middle-aged woman looked me up and down before her eyes met mine. "Are you the undertaker?" I took off my bowler hat and gave a small bow.
"I am, Mr. Sallow… and you are?"
"Mrs. Deeth," the woman said through a sob. Rather ironic name given the situation.
"Ah, you must be Mr. Ford Deeth's wife?" The woman gave a small nod. "Well, it is a pleasure to meet you… I just wish it could have been under better circumstances." The woman smiled, moving behind the door to allow me access.
The house was dark and filled with the slight odor of death only someone who worked with bodies would recognize. When the body had not started to decay but it was almost like you could smell the grim reaper in the air. The house consisted of a small room that held nothing more than a fireplace and two old wooden chairs in front of it. A large iron pot gently bubbled over the calm fire. At least the woman was eating… something. Off to the side was a second room that held a small metal bed and in the center, the lifeless body of Mr. Deeth already wrapped in his death shroud. The room was full of old family photos and paintings of flowers and cats. On one of the bedstand was a framed photo of a boy, aged 12 at most.
"Is that your grandson?" I asked, pointing to the photo.
"My son," Mrs. Deeth sighed. "He's gone now though… reaped into the 52nd Hunger Games and killed in the bloodbath." I looked back at the photo and felt a pang of remorse; he seemed like a good kid from that one photo, lucky to have parents that still cared about him at least. "So it's just me now with the little money I can make from my paintings." I gave a soft smile as I turned my attention back to her dead husband.
"I like to spend a few moments alone with the body to pay my respects while I wait for the truck to come. Would that be possible?" Mrs. Deeth gave a small nod before quickly hurrying out of the room, shutting the door behind her. I turned back towards the body and smiled. "Now then, Edward… what have you got for me today?"
I quietly walked over to the bedside table with their son's photo on top and pulled out the drawer. Mostly paint supplies, but there were a few loose coins. I took half and placed them in my jacket pocket. I then moved to the other side where I found an old pocket watch that was beaten and bruised but still worth something. The last thing that I took was a small enameled brooch that lay on her nightstand, depicting a bunch of roses. I then turned to Mr. Deeth's body and gave a small bow and thanks. As I rose, my eyes once again caught sight of the watercolor paintings that lined the walls. I could see why she sold enough of them to make an income; they were beautiful.
"Mrs. Deeth!" I called as I opened the door to the rest of the house. The woman looked up from the pot on fire that she stirred, the flame reflecting in her tears. "Would it be possible to have a painting commissioned?" I asked, holding my hat at my side. "Of course—"
"How quickly could you get it done by?" I asked firmly, my eyes looking at the other paintings that were hanging over the fireplace.
"If it was a small one… maybe by the end of tonight?" the light was blocked out by a shadow that crossed the window, casting the room into darkness, the faint outline of a small truck visible through the curtains. When I heard the small honk of
a car, I gave a small smile.
"Perfect."
The body was surprisingly easy to lift into the back of the vehicle between myself and the drivers, Mitsu and Tony. Before we left, I paid Mrs. Deeth for the commission with the coins I had stolen from her dresser, gave one last well wishes, and accepted payment for her husband's funeral arrangements.
The moment we had pulled up in front of the funeral home, the head undertaker, Axel, rushed to the back of the truck to meet with me, holding one hand out to accept the money and holding paperwork in the other.
"She ordered the whole package," I sighed, handing over the money. Axel hummed in response, his gray hair meticulously groomed and slicked back with gel. He was a strict character but he went out of his way to ensure homeless orphans like myself at one point were given a safe home, food, and a trade to last them a lifetime. Sometimes he got on my last nerve but I respected that and tried to repay it back where I could. However, when I watched him count the money, I felt slightly offended. I'd never steal from him. "Don't you trust me?" I grumbled. He looked up at me with a small smile.
"No," he said bluntly before snapping his fingers and ordering Mitsu and Tony to help me bring the body inside. Lily rushed to open the doors for us, her curly blonde hair pulled back into a messy ponytail. I looked at her and gave a wide grin as the other two thanked her for holding the door.
"It's your lucky day, Lily!" I laughed. "They've ordered the whole package!"
Drusilla Carmichel, Aged 18 District 2 Female.
The underground cage fighting arena was a stark contrast to the polished brutality I was used to. Here, in a cramped space filled with the roar of a bloodthirsty crowd, I found a rawer form of the violence I was trained for. The air was thick, heavy with anticipation, and the musky scent of sweat and aggression.
Standing in my corner, I eyed my opponent across the cage. He was large, muscles built from countless fights, his confidence evident in his stance. I noted the scars that decorated his skin—each one a story of survival. Maybe he was a trained career like me once, or maybe his history was purely street brawls and illegal fighting. But I wasn't intimidated; fighting was in my soul, my very essence shaped by a lifetime of rigorous training.
As the bell rang, cutting through the noise of the crowd, my focus narrowed to the man in front of me. We circled each other, cautious at first, each waiting for the other to make the first move. It didn't take long for my opponent to charge, hoping to use his size to his advantage. I was quicker, sidestepping his advance and countering with a swift kick to his knee. The move threw him off balance, but he recovered quickly, anger flaring in his eyes.
The crowd was a distant roar in my ears, their excitement a background hum to the adrenaline pulsing through me. I thrived in this environment, each cheer fueling my determination to win.
My opponent became more cautious, but I could read his movements, anticipate his strikes. I dodged a clumsy punch and landed a blow to his jaw, feeling the satisfying crunch under my fist. He reeled from the impact, giving a small grunt and spitting a mouthful of blood and a tooth onto the ground.
I could see that my endurance and technique were beginning to wear him down. I could see it in the way his movements became sluggish, the desperation in his eyes. Seizing the moment, I unleashed a series of strikes, culminating in a powerful punch that sent him to the ground.
The crowd erupted as the referee called the fight, their cheers for me, the victor. I stood in the center of the cage, breathing heavily, the rush of victory coursing through me. This rush must have been what it was like to win the Games. The feeling of glory and attention.
As I exited the cage, the noise of the crowd faded, replaced by the small hum of the generators in the back rooms. A pair of bodyguards followed closely in case the guy I defeated decided to come find me. I made my way into a small room where Maximus sat on a worn-out velvet sofa, a wide smile on his face.
"Drusilla!" he said with a slightly drawn-out tone; he was clearly high again. "I always knew it would be you!"
"Maurice says you put a bet on me losing," I said coldly, straightening my back. Maximus laughed, looking at the guards for backup.
"Well, Maurice should know of all people that I always bet on the least favorite to win… gets more betters to pick the losing options."
I narrowed my eyes at him. "Of course." I held out my open palm to him. Maximus' cold gray eyes moved to my
hand and sighed. He reached into his pockets and pulled out a small red envelope and placed it in my hands.
"Your winnings from tonight, as promised." I spilled the coins out into my hands and counted them one by one until I was confident Maximus had not cheated me out of a single penny, then tucked the money into my pocket.
"I'm sure you remember that I won't be around for a few weeks after tonight," I reminded the drugged-up old man.
"Ah yes, you are our lucky District 2 female this year. That is perfectly fine; you are more than welcome back if you return—"
"When I get back," I interjected. Maximus gave a wavy smile, and I turned on my heel and left the bar with my winnings. If you had told me five years ago I would be supporting my family through cage fighting in the underbelly of District 2, I would have laughed at such a notion. My mother would have had a heart attack. Five years ago, I couldn't have predicted that my father would die of cancer only a few months later. I loved the man, but he was a fool. He had wanted me to be a victor, so in his will, he left everything to pay for my training, forcing me to volunteer at eighteen to make the sacrifice worth it and forcing me and my mother out onto the streets. Working jobs in the quarry between us and my cage fighting winnings, we were able to keep ourselves housed and fed, but we shouldn't have had to do such a thing.
It wasn't for much longer. Maybe my father's poor judgment will be worth it in the end. In a few weeks, I could return as a victor with more money than my mother and I ever had. You know, assuming I'm not brutally murdered. I wasn't sure if the Quarter Quell twist increased my odds or not. If I got paired with another career, victory would be almost guaranteed. If it was some scrappy outer District kid, I still had the chance to go home, but I would be dragging some untrained Tribute along with me.
Welcome to the first chapter of my partial SYOT, Star-Crossed: 75th Hunger Games.
I want to be upfront that my characters will win this story but I am looking for 3 more pairs (so 6 other Tributes) who will also get POV's in this story. Ideally I would like to showcase different type of pairing dynamics in this story.
If you are interested in submitting, you can find the form on my profile and feel free to PM me if you would like to discuss your characters at all.
Let me know what you think of Kit and Drusilla so far and I will see you with the next update!