THIS IS A MANDATORY PROGRAMME
DO NOT TURN OFF
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THE CAPITOL PRESENTS
The Winner of the 64th Annual Hunger Games!
The colossal marble auditorium erupted as their favourite host welcomed the latest jewel into the Capitol's ever-watching eye. The young blonde girl, flustered from the velocity of her success, waved to her new peers and they screamed their praise back at her. The people's choice, she had been favoured to win.
"District 1's Cashmere Nicholo, ladies and gentlemen!" Caesar Flickerman greeted the crowds with his award-winning grin and he hurried to give the doe-eyed 15 year-old a warm hug. "Congratulations, and may I say that you look sensational! Doesn't she, everyone?"
"Oh this little old thing?" Cashmere addressed the cameras and tugged at the hem of her hand-beaded cyan dress that cut off at her newly-polished knees and emphasised her growing curves. She brushed her hands down her hips like her mentor had instructed her and soaked in the whistles. She hoped Caesar couldn't see how hard her heart was thudding.
Her fingers itched toward her exposed thigh as though reaching for her throwing knives, but she recovered quickly with a forced bow.
But not quick enough.
"Refocus the camera, stay on her face — the girl still thinks she's in the games," the head game maker muttered into his lapel microphone as he clicked his fingers at the closest operator, impatient and fuelled by white spirits, "Caesar, get her to the couch now. Keep her talking, mention her brother."
"Now I simply can't go on any further without mentioning what a historic victory this is," Caesar led Cashmere to the slick white couch, his eyes never flirting with the nervous girl's twitchy hands, "a consecutive family win, your brother Gloss won the games last year, and here you sit the following year our newest victor!"
Gloss.
Her rock. Her reason for survival. Where was he? She hadn't seen him since coming out of the arena, they wouldn't let them. Cashmere stopped twitching and smoothed her hands against her dress skirt, her sculpted face softening as the audience aww'ed at the footage of the siblings bonding over their training sessions rolling above them.
"He's the reason I'm sitting here before you, everything I did in the games was because of him. I didn't want to disappoint him," she drawled, a poised Southern belle who knew exactly what to say.
But it still broke her when she heard him say—
"You could never disappoint me, Cas."
"GLOSS!"
Another eruption blew the non-existent roof from the marble colosseum as the attractive blonde victor stepped onto the stage to surprise his sobbing baby sister. The cameras worked hard to capture every second of the siblings heartfelt embrace, and the tears streaming down their faces meant those working themselves to the bone to pull this off could celebrate in full Capitol fashion tonight.
Another successful Hunger Games had just come to a close. Another notch on their tallies. Another year with no incidents…
"Sir…"
The head game maker froze mid-gulp of his zested white spirit amidst the celebrations in the main camera station and he turned to look at the solemn-faced security guard who looked as though his suit was too small for his large frame.
He handed him a sealed square black envelope and nodded curtly.
"President Snow wishes to see you."
"Shit," the head game maker accepted the envelope with another short nod and poured another glass of fuel to fight his oncoming shudders. "Where is he?"
"He's coming here," he answered. The wrong answer. He was coming now.
"Clear the room," he barked out and his team left without any questions. They caught glimpses of the envelope, the rose signet stamped in scarlet. They knew.
"Gavius," the head game maker straightened his ruffled lime tie and slicked back his grey hair as Snow entered the room, his startling eyes admiring the elaborate filming equipment. "I wanted to offer my congratulations in person."
Gavius Creed never hid that he was terrified for Coriolanus Snow, why should he bother? It was what the dictator wanted and he was never one to stray from tradition. It was too much hard work.
"Thank you, Mr President," he bowed, wobbling from both intoxication and fear, "The Nicholo siblings are fan-favourites, it was a simple play really. We broke sponsorship records, more people sponsored our tributes than any year before."
"Yes, quite a triumph, hence my congratulations," Snow summarised, his hands clasped behind his back as he admired the b-roll footage playing on some of the smaller screens. Gavius wrinkled his nose, tickled by the stench of artificial rose that hung over the old man like a dark cloud. Couldn't stand the scent.
"With the influx of money coming into the War Sector this quarter, sir, I was hoping—,"
"You want a raise," Snow answered for him, his firm gaze glued on the doting scene playing out in front of the roaring crowds. From the window he was looking from, you could truly see the impact of the emotional show stretch through the thousands upon thousands of waving hands. Love was powerful.
Too powerful.
"Your work with the sponsors will be rewarded," he continued, relieving Gavius of some of his bated breath, "but your work in the games themselves… That will not be rewarded."
"Sir?" Gavius couldn't feel his tongue.
"The male tribute from District 7," Snow said slowly, finally removing himself from the window and walking back toward his frightened game maker. "The Strawe boy. Died screaming, drowning in his own blood. Very nasty asphyxiation, such an awful way to die."
Gavius swallowed the stone in his tight throat and fought the urge to mop his wet brow. That death was particularly gruesome. The District 2 girl lured District 7's John Strawe into a trap with the promise of half a rabbit's corpse and something sweeter and stickier than honey, and slit his throat with his own blade. The viewers rated the scene quite highly amongst the plethora of deaths they witnessed, he was confused as to what the problem was.
"Our reviews say otherwise," he laughed weakly, wheezing from his past days of smoking dry tobacco leaves, "I was unaware that there was a problem with this particular death—,"
The harsh buzz of a video rewinding crackled over the speakers nearest Snow as he reached over the extensive keyboards and pressed a single key. Gavius hesitated as he realised the president was about to ruin his life. Did he miss something?
The room dimmed as the footage of a half-naked 17 year-old John Strawe drowning in his own blood in a tall, rather torn field of corn. The District 2 girl had long left him, both his clothes and hers in tow, and the boy was left struggling with the last moments of his life in a hot, sticky humid mess.
"RIGGED… GAMES… RIGGED…"
Strawe's dying gurgles filled the room as blood spurred in hot foaming bubbles from the irrepressible gash across his throat. Gavius blinked, praying that he was hallucinating.
"RIGGED… JO, RUN… RIGGED—,"
The static buzz as the footage abruptly ended didn't help the murderous silence that filled the seemingly shrinking room. Next year's auditorium camera studio needed to be five times the size.
"It was lucky that one of your sober colleagues stepped in to switch the feed," Snow uttered, still staring at the screen as though expecting another clip. Gavius prayed for no more.
"President Snow, s-sir, I—,"
"This was shown in all districts, his lies were broadcast to the people all across this nation," he doubled down, cutting off his bumbling game maker with gentle disgust. "Are you aware of what is happening in District 7 as we speak?"
Gavius didn't want to ask but he was petrified. He played along like his little puppet, no longer the senior decorated game maker known for his proficient storytelling ability. He was his pawn.
"No, sir?"
The room lit up as the screens blared vibrant images of a once evergreen village in the north of District 7 burning to the ground. His bloodshot eyes bulged when he recognised the enormous wooden bear sculpture crumbling into ash as the people rioted. They were destroying their own land to spite them. Bountiful forests scorching and sending thunderous clouds of grey and charcoal into the orange night sky.
He had seen district riots before, but this was beyond his wild imagination. People decimating their own community, going against their own gods to spill blood and fury. Destroying valuable goods so the Capitol would taste just a drop of the pain they felt.
Gavius hung his head. He was fucked now.
Snow left the devastating tapes rolling as he left his game maker to ponder on what was coming to him, the silence was far worse than any declaration of his death sentence. He supposed he did do a good job overall, maybe he would be called to be executed tomorrow morning? He never liked morning anyways, it would make much more sense.
The bloody cries of the anguished district crowds overlaying the real-life cheers of the Capitol audience leaving the prime stage at the centre of the city was distasteful. Even he had to admit it put a sour taste in his mouth to see it so plainly. Still, he wasn't going to do anything about it. The riot would blow over, they always did.
But Gavius never found out if the riots faded into statistical anonymity as he hoped. He died moments later, his favourite white liquor kissing his lips for the last time.
New story alert!
I fancied giving a tragic beautiful lesbian love story a go — the ship will be two OCs based in the book universe, so if that's your kind of thing then I hope you enjoy!