a/n: welcome to my story! i love the syot format, but i strongly dislike the pressure of writing other authors' tributes. this is my love letter to the syot genre while using a cast of my own characters. i hope you enjoy!
Celsus Eliades, eighteen years old
district one male
"Open or closed?"
"Closed, darling." The woman's raspy voice reveals she's much older than I thought at first glance. It can be easy to fall for the seemingly undisturbed, pillowy facial features characteristic of all Capitol citizens. But I've honed my senses from years of serving these ladies. She reaches for her pocketbook, vulture-like fingers poised to snatch her finance card. Not on my watch.
"Ohh come on, hun. Stay awhile!" I grin widely, flashing my pearly whites as she fumbles with the contents of her clutch. I do this creepy thing where I don't blink, I just stare at them, beaming them with my youthful energy like invisible rays. It's a superpower that never fails me.
She smiles sheepishly and sets her pocketbook on the bartop. "I guess I could stay for another drink or two…"
Before she even finishes, my hands are moving. "One Panem pomegranate, coming right up!" I slide a pink drink across the counter, then make a dramatic gesture to plop a miniature umbrella against the lip of her glass.
She takes a hesitant sip, then immediately goes back for another. "Mmm! This is delicious, young man."
We get to talking about the history of this building. I tell her that my grandparents own this winery, and the grounds have been tended by my family for generations. Carefully developed flavors are selected each season and shipped off to the stagnant, temperature controlled caverns of District Two, where they will age for a minimum of five years before being purchased by the finest Capitol restaurants. The Eliades Family has perfected our craft and received many fortunes from the Capitol for our services. Our wines, while nearly perfect, still embody the imperfections of One's culture, which is eagerly sought out by those who wish to experience the ruggedness of district life. The story is ingrained in me, at this point. I've been bartending for years now, and before that I was attached to my brother at the hip, observing his actions like an eager pupil. It's an art, really. It takes more than an understanding of mixology to excel in this role. You have to be utterly mesmerizing—a fascination to all Capitol citizens who travel to the districts for a glimpse of our lives.
"This has been lovely, dear," the lady coos. She shakily hands me her card, fingers moving with far less precision now that she's tasted this season's entire selection. "Will you be out supporting One's tributes tomorrow?"
It's my chance to secure another sponsor. "Well of course! Do I have your support, ma'am?"
She lets out a hoot of excitement with an incredulous expression on her face. "Are you The Academy's representative?" She goes on explaining that she's never ever met a tribute in real life before. Of course I have her support, and she'd be telling all her friends about what a fine gentleman I am. In fact, she can't believe I was born in the districts given how polite and respectful I was to her.
We chat a bit more about my upcoming big day before she finally gathers her things and exits the bar. After counting up her hefty tip and wiping down the bartop, I leave.
..
"You better not run off with some Capitol girl," sighs Minerva, shooting me a disapproving glare. She's in bed next to me, head resting on a propped arm. Her golden hair falls down the curve of her shoulders and gently dusts the tip of my nose as she stares down at my face.
"You think so little of me," I tease, revealing a mischievous grin and tapping the tip of her nose with my finger.
She huffs and plops her head down on the pillow. "Ugh. Boys."
Despite the lighthearted nature of the exchange, we both know this thing we have going on, whatever it is, is over. Tomorrow is the first day of the rest of my life. And whether I survive or perish in the arena, I won't be returning to Minerva. If I get my way, I won't be returning to District One at all. Some volunteers want glory while others want revenge, but I've always had my eyes set on a far more tantalizing prize. A new life. There are many avenues for District One victors to create new existences for themselves in the Capitol.
"What's it like?" she whispers, "To have everything you want right within your grasp?" Her voice carries a hint of jealousy. Minerva, while she may be kind of a snob, is also a highly skilled trainee, and I'm selfishly glad she won't be joining me in the arena. For a while it was looking like it would be the case.
I take a second to ponder my response. "It feels… right."
She sits back and stares at the ceiling before letting out a big sigh. "Oh Celsus… you were born to be a star. I only wish I could've been in there with you." Her gaze drifts away from me and wanders around my bedroom. The walls are bare and only a few mementos sit atop my nightstand. This place is not sentimental to me—I've never belonged here in One.
"I just hope it's worth it," I murmur.
"The Capitol?"
"Yeah."
She leans over and kisses me softly on the cheek. "It better be. I mean…" Her voice trails off. "I mean, it will. For what you're about to go through, it better be worth it."
I don't know why, but Minerva's sudden hesitance spooks me. It sounded way too ominous. For a split second, the air gets stuck in my throat and I can't really breathe. I brush away the feeling and reach my arm across her back, pulling her closer to me.
"It'll be a piece of cake. Before you know it, I'll be sipping cocktails with the President herself."
..
Reaping Day in One starts out comically joyous compared to the utter despair seeping through the rest of Panem. I'm awoken to a knock on the door, followed by a chorus of cheers from all my fellow trainees at The Academy. It's a highly resented tradition for the top ten or fifteen trainees to rally behind the chosen tribute on Reaping day. It's meant to encourage district honor to be held higher than our personal grievances, but it also gives my competitors one last chance to gloat before I'm sent to my eventual victory or untimely death. While I appreciate my classmates' support, it doesn't go over my head that some of their congratulations are laced with poorly-concealed jealousy.
"Good luck out there, mate!"
"Don't let anyone mess up your hair!"
I acknowledge their feigned enthusiasm before saying, "Alright, you bastards. I couldn't have done it without you. Now get out before I flash you." They all dash to leave my room, allowing me to quickly change into the outfit my mother placed on the edge of the bed. I glance in the mirror. I look classy, with a hint of riches in the carefully stitched gold thread and onyx black buttons. But still casual and rugged enough to make me look intimidating. A seamless melt of rags and riches to manage the other tributes' perceptions of me while simultaneously painting a picture of wealth and relatability for the Capitol sponsors. It's perfect.
As I walk out the front door, still adjusting my tie ever so slightly to the left, I feel a sudden wave of coldness pass over my body. I try to shake it off, but as I get closer to the town square, the feeling only intensifies. Suddenly I can't really feel my fingers and toes. How unusual.
Today should feel exhilarating. It's all I've ever wanted.
Right?
Pomona "PK" Kouris, eighteen years old
district one female
The Reaping is unnecessarily formal for a district where any shock value that may have existed in the early days of the Games is now absent. Our volunteers have been well known since just a few months after last year's Games ended. Not that an unplanned volunteer has never occurred, but such a situation would only amount to a hiccup in the day's proceedings. Today's outcome is predetermined—Pomona and Celsus will be the two tributes getting on that train to the Capitol regardless of any wannabe volunteers with a death wish that may reveal themselves. As soon as the cameras were cut and the traitorous idiot was brought backstage, they would swiftly have a "medical emergency" and be replaced by the original volunteer from One. Which brings me back to my thought—why even bother with the Reaping? Frivolous symbolism, I guess.
"Name and ID number," barks the Peacekeeper.
"Pomona Kouris, 182813," I respond coolly.
He pricks my finger, stamps it onto the booklet, and shouts "Next!"
I'm taken away from the group of other girls and led around the edge of the crowd, purposely making our way to the front of the city square. Two Peacekeepers flank me on either side, and it strikes me how I've already begun to rise in status, both in my own district and within Panem at large. Optically I'm being painted as a step above ordinary district life. People who used to dismiss me are now longing for the opportunity I've earned. What a nice change.
As we near the front of the crowd, the entourage comes to a sharp halt. A girl is approaching, and it takes me a second to recognize her, which is odd because I once saw this person as far more formidable than just an ordinary district girl. But outside of the Academy walls, dressed in her regular attire, my biggest source of competition is no more intimidating than any other nameless face in the masses.
"PK." She greets me blandly, her voice hoarse from what I can only imagine are a lot of suppressed tears.
"Minerva."
She takes a critical glance at my yellow silk dress, but her gaze softens as she admires the encrusted gold detailing. "You look really nice. Stunning, actually."
"Thank you. Have you already seen Celsus off?"
She winces a little bit. "He's ready. You should watch out for him, you know."
I shrug. "Celsus doesn't scare me."
Minerva's admiration of Celsus makes me sick to my stomach given that his fling with her was so painfully one-sided. It was honestly hard to watch. What kind of idiot wants to go into the arena with their lover? Minerva was just insane enough, and the way she pined after that man even though it was clearly just a ploy to distract her from training disgusted me to my core. If Celsus won the Games and had his pick of any girl in the Capitol, he'd leave Minerva behind in a heartbeat. Everyone knew it, except Minerva, of course.
She purses her lips and grabs my hand, making a grand gesture out of it. I let it hang limply in her grasp, refusing to give her the satisfaction of feeling like a good person.
"You've been through so much," she says, feigning sympathy, "You're truly an inspiration to us all."
Now she's done it. I yank my hand away and turn away from her. As I march away with the Peacekeepers, I fire some final words over my shoulder. "Goodbye, Minerva."
..
"Welcome, welcome!" booms the nasally, over-amplified voice of Mimosa Plain, our beloved District One tribute escort. Never one to miss an opportunity to dress up, she is donned in a floor length silver ball gown that splays out on the stage behind her in dramatic fashion. The practicality of the dress should be questioned, given that she requires six Peacekeepers to walk ten feet to the microphone, but even I can admit she looks like a goddess.
I'm positioned at the front of the crowd, standing before every single Reaping-aged girl in District One. It's a rather daunting position to be in, but I don't let it show. One look up at the projected screens reminds me that Celsus isn't nervous at all—in fact, he's reveling in his spotlight over in the boys' section. He shouldn't be so frightening to me, but I've seen that stupid grin warp into the sinister smirk of a cold-blooded killer. It makes his charming moments seem devilish.
After completing her self-serving remarks, Mimosa begins the ordeal of moving across the stage to the girls' drawing bowl. I ready myself for the big moment.
"Ahem… The female tribute is… Belladonna Stripe!"
"I volunteer as tribute for District One!" I shout.
The weight of the cameras intensifies, flushing my skin with heat as lights are aimed at me from every direction. I shudder at the sight of my face on screen. Mirrors have been my biggest enemy for the past five years since my accident, and I go to great lengths to avoid seeing the tight, stretched skin that now exists where my eye used to be. I wouldn't recommend taking a spear to the face.
I start toward the stage, gingerly making my way up the steps to avoid embarrassing myself on the ascent. I've never been the type of girl to wear heels, so this is new territory for me. Once I reach Mimosa's side, I turn and proudly face my district. For all the suffering I've endured here, I'm still proud to call One home. I'm grateful for the lessons it taught me, even the relentless bullying I faced from girls like Minerva who couldn't seem to get past my scars. Their words made me stronger. And I'm about to make them regret every snide remark they ever made about my capabilities, because they sure as hell didn't expect me to use it as fuel.
"And what is your name, young lady?" asks Mimosa. As if she doesn't already know.
"Pomona Kouris. PK."
"What a marvelous name!" she beams. "Very well then. Moving on!"
Mimosa almost cracks a smile out of me as she begins the trek across stage, moving slower than I thought possible. I catch Celsus' eye in the crowd and he responds with an amused wink.
"The male tribute will be… well, I highly doubt it. But the name is Roma Ferrari!"
The crowd is silent. No one makes a sound. Mimosa looks around awkwardly, then turns around to face the mayor, who gives her an equally puzzled look. Somewhere in the crowd, I'm sure Roma is shitting himself. After an uncomfortable amount of time, Celsus finally breaks the tension.
"I volunteer!"
I let out a breath that I didn't realize I was holding. How silly of me, to think he wouldn't volunteer. Just another one of his antics. Celsus quickly walks toward the stage, joining me on the opposite side of our escort. We turn and face one another.
Celsus and I have always been on amicable terms, surprisingly. He's one of the few people I can't recall ever participating in the tirade of bullying I experienced. But when I think hard about that period of my life, I realize he didn't do anything to stop it either. I'll never forget what it felt like to be so utterly alone. No matter how long Celsus and I are able to work together in that arena, I know deep down, he doesn't owe me anything. We're both here for ourselves.
"Shake hands, my perfect tributes!" squeals Mimosa.
We abide by her request, locking our palms and shaking as the rest of the district cheers out words of encouragement. I can't help but notice that Celsus' hands are incredibly sweaty. Stage fright? Or did that pause really mean something?
It doesn't matter. We're in it now, whether we like it or not.
