The dazzling lights of the stage shone brightly on Tempestas Clamor's face, his heavy makeup appearing to almost be glowing in the spotlight of the room. The roar of the crowd could be heard in his ears, his earpiece doing little to block out the noise. Standing in the middle of the stage on a raised platform, the man flourished his arms, eliciting more cheers from the masses that stood before him. He could feel the energy of the crowd, the pure adrenaline of their excitement running through his veins. This was what he lived for. The lights, the cameras, all of it. He wouldn't trade a thing for this position.
Standing at 5'10'', the man somehow seemed larger than life, his presence towering over the whole auditorium. His mousy brown hair was overshadowed by the tastefully flashy suit he wore, the makeup caked into his smile making him look both simultaneously older and younger than he actually was. His platform boots added an extra inch or so to his height, his balance impeccable as he strode across the stage with his arms wide. Allowing the crowd to applaud as much as they wanted, he took a deep breath, his smile stretching across his face. They went on for a full minute more, allowing him to relish the sound until it slowly trickled out.
Turning sharply on his heel, he made his way over to a plush armchair that had risen from the floor under the stage, With a final bow, he plopped down into it, stretching out his legs before leaning forward, almost as if he was ushering the crowd in to tell them a secret. Music played from overhead, the screen behind him lighting up with an image of his visage. The Capitol crowd never seemed to tire of his theatrics, leaning forward themselves as they waited with bated breath to hear what he had to say. The cameras in the back of the room zoomed in, broadcasting his face to every television in the city.
"People of Panem! Fellow citizens! Today we are gathered to celebrate something rather special. Yes, you know what today is!" he nodded, his voice projecting across the auditorium with the help of the small microphone sitting snugly against his face. A few audience members exchanged confused looks, as if they weren't quite sure what he was talking about. The others nodded enthusiastically, a few clapping their hands together until the sign hanging above the stage lit up with a symbol for no applause upon it. Tempestas leaned back in his chair, giving the crowd a moment before pointing a slender finger at the audience.
"Today is the 39th anniversary of President Io Vici's addendum to the games! Our dear former president, may she rest in peace, broke barriers when she issued a declaration that would change the games as we knew them," enthused the man, continuing after a moment. "I'm sure that all of you are familiar with the additions to the rules she made, the most impactful of which being the ages of our tributes. Before the 75th games, tributes were children, barely able to hold a weapon as they tore each other to shreds. Now, we can watch as our tributes are of age, much better suited for the arena than those that came before them," The crowd cheered again at his words, the last stragglers finally catching on to what he was talking about.
"President Vici enacted several other rules and brought about several other events in relation to the games. In fact, the Victors' dinner is rapidly approaching! You'll get to see your favorite champions of the games standing before you in less than two weeks! I know, you can hardly wait. Patience is a virtue!" Tempestas laughed at his last few words, knowing that the denizens of the Capitol were anything but patient. They were like ravenous dogs, constantly waiting for someone to throw them a bone, jumping and devouring whatever they were given within seconds of receiving it. Crossing one leg over the other, he waited for the applause to die down, winking at the camera as he did so.
Taking a sip of the beverage beside him, he let the cool liquid slid down his throat. There were still two months before Reaping Day, and yet the crowd was just as energetic as they'd be during the actual course of the games. The last games had been spectacular, thanks to the gamemakers and the tributes selected, but the crowd always hungered for more. They couldn't get enough of the games. He supposed that the more recent twists the gamemakers liked to put on them always helped them stay fresh and new, as he'd heard that the games before his time had gotten a little repetitive.
"All of our Victors since the 74th games, together at one party! It's an event you won't want to miss. It'll only be the start of the festivities, though, so you can guarantee that there will be something for everyone coming up over the next few months," gestured the man, a schedule of sorts appearing on the screen behind him. The graphic flashed and swirled for a few seconds before going back to the schedule, and then slowly fading away. The schedule was readily available online to most Capitol citizens, anyway, so having it there on the screen was only for show. A beam of light lit up Tempestas once again, even brighter than before. He leaned in once more, beckoning the crowd closer with a hand.
"That isn't what you're here for, though. You're not here to hear news about the upcoming games! No, there's someone here that you'd rather see, isn't there?" said Tempestas, his voice going down to a stage whisper as the masses awaited his words with baited breath. On his cue, the music started up again once more, and the screens started flashing with lights as a large number was displayed across them. The seven that graced the screens split into two as the screens began to part, revealing a silhouette behind them. Upon seeing the figure displayed there, the people in the audience leapt to their feet, screams and cheers erupting as a young man's face came into view.
Ezekiel Branch was one of the most popular victors in recent years. At the age of 22, he'd swept the Capitol off their feet with his charming grin and willingness to stab others in the back. Like many others from District 7, he was known for his proficiency with axes, but that wasn't what had won him the games. This would be the first big-screen interview with him after his Victory Tour several months earlier. As he stepped down from the platform he'd been standing on behind the screen, Tempestas stood up, greeting him with a firm handshake once he'd made his way over to the entertainer.
After waving to the crowd, and waiting for the applause to end, the two men sat in their respective chairs as Ezekiel surveyed his surroundings. To Tempestas, he looked almost identical to how he'd looked at the end of his games, maybe with a little more meat on his bones. The district seven victor was tall and broad shouldered, always having a signature confidence that mirrored Tempestas' own. His tan skin and curly hair were well-kept, but his smile didn't quite reach his eyes when he looked directly at the announcer. Not surprising, as it seemed like the victors always harbored a grudge against him.
"Ezekiel Branch. It's been some time since we've seen you. How have you been getting on?" asked Tempestas, smiling brightly at the younger man. The victor shrugged, still scanning the room, but then focused his attention back on the questioner. His hands were neatly folded in his lap, the fresh scars on his knuckles barely visible. Being in a position to have more information than most, the older man knew that these weren't from a fight, or from someone else. Apparently Ezekiel was still keeping up with his physique in his spare time, and the punching bags in his home were well-used.
"Well, Tempestas, I've been keeping myself busy. Lots of visiting your fine city, and when I get a break, I've been working on some of my hobbies," responded Ezekiel, casually, almost with a hint of boredom in his voice. The camera zoomed in on his face, allowing the viewers at home to get a better look at the victor. He was engaged in the conversation, at least enough to fool the capitol citizens, but his nonchalance was obvious.
Tempestas nodded. "I've heard that you've picked up pottery as a habit. Is that correct?" he intoned, the screens behind them showing a picture of Ezekiel sitting in front of a potter's wheel with a half-formed pot resting on it. A few other vases and pots could be seen in the background, some painted, others left bare. It was an odd hobby for a District Seven victor, as woodworking would have been more appropriate, but it wasn't as though he was restricted in what materials he had available anymore.
"Yep. I thought it seemed interesting, so I tried it out. Turns out that it's harder than it looks," Ezekiel said, a hint of a chuckle in his voice as the screen showed a picture of the victor covered in clay. The audience laughed with him, the man himself playing it off with a wave of his hand. Obviously, he'd moved past the stage of messing things up for quite some time, and the clay-covered picture was most definitely staged by the press team. Some of his finished pieces were then shown, at which the audience oohed and aahed at the shiny pottery. Ezekiel had the grace to look flattered, smiling serenely at those in attendance.
After a series of pottery pictures being shown on the screen, the pictures suddenly transitioned into those of Ezekiel in the city. Most faces were blurred out, but the faces of Ezekiel and a rather lanky looking woman were visible. Looking up at the pictures, Ezekiel was clearly surprised, but gave a roll of his eyes and a smirk. Those in the capitol would recognize the woman as the district eight victor from the 111th games. Her expression in the picture was ambiguous, unable to be discerned as being annoyed or happy. A few women in the audience put their hands to their faces, whispering amongst themselves.
"We've heard recent rumors of you spending more time with Crescent Houndstooth, a recent victor from Eight. Care to comment?" asked Tempestas, a teasing glimmer in his eyes. Ezekiel made a show of groaning and looking slightly embarrassed. More muttering came from the audience, but the young man shook his head and grinned.
"There's not much to say, really. She's a good friend of mine," replied Ezekiel, clearly implying that she was more than a friend. It wasn't unusual for victors to be entangled with one another, but admitting it on public television was a bit bold. The next picture on the slideshow changed to a picture of the woman clearly yelling at Ezekiel for something, holding up her purse as he held out his hands to placate her. More laughter came from the crowd, who was eating all of this up.
"She's got a bit of a temper, sure. That can't really be helped," he said, continuing to grin at the camera. This time, he laughed alongside the audience, Tempestas laughing with them as well. The district eight victor wasn't in the public light as much as Ezekiel was, but was still seen from time to time in the capitol for various events. Normally, she was fairly quiet, and drifted off into thought often, but the crowd didn't seem to know or care. Tempestas saw the clock up by the small video screen in the back of the room that could only be seen on the stage, noticing that the time was ticking down. It was probably in his best interest to wrap this up.
"Are you looking forward to the Victor's dinner?" inquired Tempestas, going back to his set questions. The camera panned over the crowd, then back to the stage as Ezekiel began to answer the question.
Several districts away, a woman with burnt reddish hair and pale skin was cursing up a storm at her television.
"That little shit!" she yelled, standing up from the couch abruptly and clenching her fists tight. Her eyes were full of fire, a string of other expletives leaving her mouth as she paced back and forth in front of her sofa. As she paced, she swung her arms widely about, gesturing as she listed all of the ways that she'd get him back when she saw him next. Ending her tirade by pointing angrily at the television, she let out a silent scream, and then proceeded to reach for the remote.
With no shortage of annoyance, she pressed the buttons to turn the old television off, and let out a grunt as she sat herself back down on the couch with her arms crossed. Still fuming, she let herself take several deep breaths before closing her eyes gently. Unfortunately, this didn't last, and she let out another angry noise as she grit her teeth and grimaced. Clutching her hands together, she fidgeted with her fingers, opening and closing them before turning her hands into fists once more. She tossed some of her auburn hair away from her face as she looked at the TV again, venom filling her expression. Another deep breath later and she was up from the couch again, pacing once more over a well-trod path on her living room rug.
"I am going to kill him!" she said, mostly to herself, making a kicking motion with her foot. "Who does he think he is, going and insinuating that load of bullshit?" her hands tensed as she made a throttling motion in the air. Her hair flowed behind her as she walked back and forth down the length of the room, whispering to herself once she realized that she was being a little too loud. As there was no one else in the house, her stomping did little, and she quickly wore herself out. Nevertheless, she continued to pace, muttering and almost spitting out her words as she did so. The woman was pissed off, and she had every right to be so. It was just her luck that she'd turned on the television for the interview. Normally, she couldn't even stand to see his pitiful face.
Crescent Houndstooth absolutely despised Ezekiel Branch. From the second it seemed like he was going to win his games, Crescent was ready to denounce him as the bane of her existence. First he killed both tributes from her district, then he made it his business to bother her at every single opportunity after the games. He thought that her hatred was funny. Imagine that! He was such a little pest that she made every move possible to avoid him during their visits to the capitol and the victory tour, and yet she still couldn't escape him. She wasn't sure what sort of game he was playing, but this was enough to make her blood boil.
The victor of the 111th Hunger Games got tired of pacing, and miserably sat herself back down on the couch, head in her hands. This was a sick joke. Now everyone in the Capitol was going to think that they liked each other! She was going to be stuck seeing him at every public event from now until she died. It was so juvenile, she thought, rubbing her temples with her hands. She was pretty sure that he hated her, too. Why would he do something that got them stuck together for who knows how long?
She'd known that his little embarrassed act was fake from the second she'd seen it. Crescent knew that he didn't get embarrassed easily, and that he was only manipulating the audience into believing whatever garbage he spouted out of his detestable little mouth. Growling again, she sat up and leaned back on her old, tattered couch. Being a victor in district eight got you some things, but it certainly didn't do enough to get her the type of swanky furniture the victors got in other districts. Sure, the clothes were nice, but this house was decorated like an old person lived in it. Probably because one had, dying a few years before she won her games and moved in. Even her victor's salary didn't give her enough to get new furniture.
Right. Back to the problem at hand. Crescent was half-tempted to call him, knowing he wouldn't pick up, but she wouldn't be able to stand listening to his stupid ringtone if she did that. His voice grated on her ears whenever she heard it. How did the capitol love him so much? Now, they'd painted her as some sort of sap. Some sort of toy. Most of them probably didn't remember her games. She'd earned that title, she'd killed for it! All thrown away in favor of them seeing her as a pathetic little doll. Granted, the capitol didn't really let her act like her true self anyway, but at least she had some control over her image.
She glanced up at the bookshelves in her living room. Reading was nice, sure, but she wasn't the meek little bookworm that the capitol had seen her as before the games. They'd tried to continue that image after the games, too, but she just couldn't do it. It didn't help that her fellow district 8 victor, Hilbert, did little to assist her. He was middle-aged, but still wasn't an old man, having won 20 years ago. He was great, and wasn't mean to her, but he wouldn't be very useful in fixing this problem. Thinking back about the pictures, she let out a bark of a laugh. She'd been yelling at him in the second picture, clearly, ready to hit him with her purse. Somehow, the capitol had spun that into a lover's quarrel? It was so ridiculous.
Crescent almost felt like crying. However, she stood up and walked over to the mirror that hung next to her front door. Staring into her own hazel eyes, she frowned, pulling a piece of hair away from her face. If it weren't for the capitol, she would have cut all her hair off a long time ago. Sometimes, when she closed her eyes, she could still see the arena. That was only natural for victors. Her hair had been a little shorter then, more tangled, and her eyes had lost whatever light in them they'd once had. Her eyes were now dull, flat and without any sparkle left. Sometimes she felt like a shell of a person. Shaking her head to clear the negative thoughts, as dwelling on them wouldn't help at all, she left the mirror and looked around for her coat.
It wasn't necessarily cold enough to warrant a coat, but she felt more comfortable with something over her everyday clothes. Finding it sitting on the stairs, she took a look around her house. Crescent wasn't the neatest person, and most rooms were filled with random junk that she'd amassed, but the clutter of the house made her feel more at home. She figured that a visit to Hilbert was probably in order, wanting to tell him about the horrible news. She wasn't sure if he had watched the broadcast, as the victors typically got most Capitol television programming and most of it was garbage.
With her coat on, she stepped out of her front door, surveying the landscape before her. In the distance, the tall apartment buildings that made up most of the district's housing were visible, towering over the far-away factories that were on the horizon. District Eight looked the same as it always did. Luckily, she didn't need to venture into the main part of the city, as the prying eyes would have made her immediately run back inside. It was still an odd feeling, being in the District's city, years of living about an hour away making it interesting to be in such an urban environment. Not that the Victor's village was urban, as the area of land set aside from it was full of parks and spaced out houses, all enclosed by a tall fence.
The brisk ten-minute walk to Hilbert's house was shortened by the rage that still burned in Crescent's veins. Adrenaline made her walk faster than normal. Once she turned the corner and was in view of the house, she saw Hilbert sitting on his porch, staring off at the sunset. This was a frequent sight, as he typically said that he was getting artistic inspiration from the sunset. She knew the truth, however, and that was that there was no one there to bother him when he was taking a nap. His husband was probably out at the markets, or at the factories where he worked.
"Hilbert! You'll never guess what just happened…" said Crescent, storming up to his porch as he opened one eye. Lazily, Hilbert turned, sighing as he did so. The middle-aged man was still in great shape, considering the twenty years since his games, and napping was only a small part of what he did with his life. Crescent waited for him to acknowledge her, him finally sitting up in his chair once she drew closer. She gave him a minute to clear the sleep from his eyes, and then crossed her arms. She didn't care if she was being petty or childish, she had the right to be so after what she'd just seen.
"Fine, fine. Come inside, I'll get you a cup of tea," yawned Hilbert, getting out of his chair and opening the door. Crescent followed him inside, already starting to complain about the latest news. The door shut behind them with a slight thud.
Hello, and welcome to The Wrong Side of Revival! It's been years since I've used this site, and even longer since I've started a fic, but I'm hoping that this will be a project that I'll work on for a while. This will be a SYOT, and while I'll be using a tribute of my own for POVs at the start, the main story will focus on the submitted tributes. I've changed up a few things about the games for this, as this is a universe where Katniss doesn't exist, and I figured that would allow me more creative freedom. I'll be keeping the SYOT open for as long as it takes to get enough tributes, or at least until I've judged how many tributes I'll be able to get. I'll post chapters in the meantime, usually about the victors, but once I start getting tributes, their povs will be in there as well. I'm not the best at writing from different povs, but I'll do my best! If you're interested, the form can be found on my profile. Submissions are not first-come first-serve, but I'm not expecting to be super harsh on submissions, so don't be afraid to submit! If you've got a SYOT going on and want me to submit a tribute, if you submit one to mine, I'd be more than willing to do so! Now onto the modifications to the games:
- To start, tributes must be ages 18-24. I know, that kind of takes some of the horror of the hunger games out of it, but I feel much more comfortable writing adult characters than children.
- The winning district from the past year (In this case, district seven) will only have to offer one tribute, drawn from a pool of all the eligible candidates regardless of gender.
- The worst performing district from the past year (In this case, district five, as their tributes died first) will have to offer three tributes. One of these tributes will be my own, but that still leaves two spots open for district five tributes.
More information on tribute requirements for submissions can be found in my profile!
Thanks for reading, and here's hoping I can keep this going!