[DISTRICT 8 REAPING!] ...the screams all sound the same...
Jun 10, 2013 11:14:11 GMT -5
Post by Raeoki on Jun 10, 2013 11:14:11 GMT -5
The train was a silver bullet, zipping through forestland at a speed originally impossible to humans. It was a product of Capitol ingenious; a creation of District 6 design: a combination of wills, talents, and ingenuity, from both district and city. The city had commissioned it; forced it into being; ordered what their imaginations and knowledge of transportation could conjure: the district took what had been commanded of them, and they made it better; they willed it into something efficient, whilst luxurious, whilst regal; they crafted it as an idol – not as an idol to the men who had initiated its birth, but as an idol to themselves; to what they could do; to what they knew they could become, if they were left without interference. When the train had passed its birthplace, it had went speedily and indifferently, as if the place did not exist; neither its passengers or its conductor noticed the glances that were thrown at it: the wariness; the fear – or the look that could only possibly be pertained to District Six: the eyes of knowing; the eyes of longing; the eyes of an arrogant defiance that had been compounded and nationalized during the rebellion – an arrogance that the Capitol had promptly quelled, but could not kill.
The defiance of its creators had been passed down to the train. It swept through a forest that had stood for generations; its foliage had been planted long before what the historians currently called “the Recreation Period”, when man struggled out of the ashes of war and evil to turn the human race into man again. The forest was archaic, still, indolent; the train tore through it, its tracks a pair of thin metal scars on a sea of the most verdant and natural grass known to man, the land-rocket new, fresh, despicably modern, fast, insolent. As it passed, whatever animals that were in the vicinity immediately bolted, with the same terror that the creatures feel when they smell humans approaching; and they looked upon it with the same wariness and alertness as when they look upon the deadliest and cruelest member of the animal kingdom, the snake: which the train almost was; a long, metallic serpent, its hiss being the elegant, breathy whoosh noise that it emitted as it rushed past.
In a sense, it was almost like a battle of wills was raging between the train and the forest. The forest showing off its cluster of blade-shaped leaves, waving them menacingly at the train whenever a breeze blew by, the rustling noise that came from the forest’s arms being easily translated into a growl of warning; the trees claiming this their property, this land their homeland – the train and its creatures could not have it. The train continued along on its merry way, it aforementioned whoosh noise like a laugh; for they who had created it, they who currently occupied it, they who currently commanded it knew that the forest and all that stood upon would someday be theirs, and that manifesto was the only thing the train needed to defeat the forest. And it worked; the forest began to give way, to diminish, to weaken. The density and vastness of its trees lessened; the growl/rustle that the branches had rattled at the train became less audible with each mile, less angry, less intimidating; the flourish of leaves that the trees (the forest’s warriors) had presented menacingly toward the train quickly became a less eye-catching spectacle. Soon, it became so that the train passed merely a row of sickly, lanky saplings with drooping branches and trunks, before going into a field – a long, wide strip of grass; the forest’s last act of defiance, before it complied to the will of the train and the romantic manifesto it bore. And with its compliance, the train promptly found itself among men again.
Within a compartment of the serpentine shuttle, there was a man who had fallen asleep, and was very pleased to be asleep, so we really oughtn’t to disturb, now should we? The compartment was ritzy as well classical, with furniture crafted in the Victorian style, but having been painted in gold or bright, neon colors. A large chandelier with glass that had been cut into the shape of crystals dangled from the ceiling, stretching its lanky, curling arms in all manners of direction.
The fellow that we had acknowledged in the preceding paragraph had fallen asleep upon a long, luxurious sofa of velvet, that, like its other brethren in the compartment, was of Victorian design. Though it was usually of most men’s habit (including this one’s!) to stretch themselves out in some languid, relaxed manner and close their eyes, this one was slightly different: for he was not sleeping, he was napping, and believe me, when you are this particular fellow, “sleeping” and napping” are two very separate things. For, when this man napped, he sat up straight in a very rigid, straight position, with his hands entwined and set upon his lap, and with his crimsonish eyes actually dilated, making it appear as if he was staring straight into another universe (and perhaps he was, in his dreams) with a rather awe-inspired, slack-jawed expression, for his mouth was partially open, breathing in slow, relaxed pants as he napped.
I think it would be rather good fun if we disturbed him, no? After all, we can’t have a post about someone napping, no matter how strange said nap is! Ah, here we go: it was then that a rather handsome-faced Capitolite official in his twenties and had very little experience in his field entered the compartment, and stopped himself suddenly, as his eyes landed upon the napping fellow. A large, pleased smile stretched itself across his face, and he said to the napper: “Ah, there you are, Mister Compleo!”
“Mister Compleo” did not react, however; the younger man’s voice failed to breach his slumber. The official – not realizing that his charge was in the realm of sleeping presently – found this rather odd, and furrowed his brow in his confusion. “Mister Compleo?” he asked whilst he drew nearer to Hospes, hoping that the recognition of the sound of his own name would stir the escort into a state of awareness. It promptly failed, however; Hospes continued to “stare” at his wall, his flanks heaving slowly, and then depressing in size – the only real signs of life that the younger man could see. A sudden, panging blast of frustration entered the fellow, and it cocktailed with his confusion. Is he ignoring me on purpose or something? he wondered, as he set his knuckles upon either corner of his pelvis. After all, some of his colleagues had described Hospes as a “difficult guy” – though, until presently, he could not say that he was sure if he was in agreement with his colleagues’ choice of words: for, from what little he had seen of Hospes, the escort was compliant, if not quite snappish and bearing some condescending, spiteful aloofness about him. But aside from those traits, Hospes really hadn’t given him as much trouble as the young official’s colleagues had led him to expect; sure, the escort had once seemed to have randomly appeared out of thin air directly behind him, which – admittedly – had struck panic into the official’s youthful heart for a split second, but aside from that, he had very little to complain about the older male.
At the remembrance of that particular, singular event, the young fellow also recalled a time when he was chatting with a pair of older Capitol attendants/officials, who had been at the occupation for far longer than he had, and had both worked under Hospes at one point. The discussion topic switched many times; eventually, it somehow came to the young man’s near future in the job, and the escort he was to be attending upon. “Oh, yeah. Mister Compleo? Oh. Wow. Yeah, I worked under him for a while,” said one female official. “He’s kinda…out there, if you know what I mean.”
“Really?” he had replied.
“You know what I think?” said the other official, in a flat, dry voice. “I think he’s a freak.”
With those words floating and darting about in the young man’s mind, he presently extended his palm towards Hospes, set it upon his shoulder, and proceeded to jostle him, till finally, Hospes’s eyelids started to flutter up and down at a rapid speed, and his mouth sealed itself, for he was now very much awake. As quick as a flash, Hospes’s head whipped about so his face could point towards the younger fellow’s own countenance; his red eyes, once glazed over and made to look thoughtless by sleep, was now twinkling with sentient intelligence and seemed to dye themselves an even deeper shade of gules, as indignation and rage proceeded to boil and rattle violently within him. Noticing this odd change, the other fellow quickly ceased his jostling, but forgot to remove his hand from Hospes’s shoulder. The escort’s eyes darted down to the fellow’s hand, then back up to his face. “My dear,” Hospes began, as he hissed through a set of gnashing teeth, “you are invading my personal space.”
His eyes flickered down to the back of his hand; promptly, his eyebrows lifted themselves higher on his forehead. “Oh!” He jerked his hand away from Hospes’s shoulder. “My apologies, sir; it’s just – you weren’t paying me any attention, and I-”
Hospes interrupted him, and responded in a waspish hiss: “My dear boy, I was asleep. Of course I wasn’t paying you any attention – you needn’t treat it as if it’s a rare occurrence.”
The other flinched, and he knitted his brows together in confusion. “But, sir – your eyes were open…”
Hospes wrinkled his nose in a contemptuous, insolent manner. “That’s the most idiotic thing I’ve ever heard!” he snorted, and lifted a part of his upper lip in a disgusted snarl. The boy promptly opened his mouth to object; however, Hospes rose from the sofa in a stiff manner, as if his joints had rusted over whilst he was napping, and thus silenced him with the movement. He then added: “My dear boy, why are you even here?”
The fellow pressed his lips together and rubbed them against each other; his nostrils flared as he sucked in one long inhale through his nasal passages. “The train’s just about to stop in the station,” he said, his voice even. “I’d say – fifteen minutes?”
Hospes paused for a minute, his eyes flicking up and down in their sockets as he processed this. He turned his face, and tilted his chin up a little higher, so he could read a clock that hung on the wall opposite of him. Immediately, Hospes flinched, his eyebrows arched, and his head whirled around to face the official. However, despite the quick, jerk-like movements, which would often suggest panic, his voice was smooth, calm and the speech slow: “We’re already ten minutes late.”
The official stiffened. “Oh, uh – yeah. Sorry.”
As he was stammering and apologizing, Hospes bent over so his body became ninety degrees angle, his lanky arms reaching down towards an ornately crafted coffee tables that stood a little ways before the sofa that he had been resting on. His fingers knotted around a black coat and top hat of a matching color, and he gathered them to his chest in a gentle, yet swift embrace. “I’d ask why,” Hospes grunted, as he stood up, and then set the top hat gingerly upon his orange hair, “but we really haven’t the time for questions, do we?”
The corner of the official’s mouth dipped down to form a long frown, before suddenly twisting into a cheery smile. “Oh, c’mon now, Mister Compleo! It’s a big day for everybody – don’t be grumps!” he chuckled, in an attempt to lighten the escort’s mood.
“I am not ‘grumps’!” Hospes snapped with a wrinkled nose. “‘Grumps’ isn’t even an adjective,” he grumbled, as he wrapped the coat about himself, and then proceeded to shove his arms into their sleeves. He swept past the official, his fingers twisting around the buttons of his coat. His attire for “the big day” (as the official called it) was, in reality, essentially what he wore on a daily basis, only with a top hat that would make people of our age remember President Abraham Lincoln, and the coat he wore today had thin coattails wagged and fluttered behind him as he moved. However, beyond those things, everything else was things Hospes would wear around the home: a sleek, striped vest of a rather mundane soot color, with an ebony tie of very little width being tucked into it; hiding behind the vest and the tie was a very plain, button-up shirt of the white color, being neatly pressed and absolutely pure of any blots or stains. The trousers were straight and black, the shoes formal and glossy in their polish; the whole set of attire being strict and formal, lacking any flamboyance and languidness that his birthplace had become so infamous for.
Hospes departed from the compartment, and entered a long, narrow passage that slashed through the center of the car, bifurcating the car and separating his compartment and the compartment that was reserved for the sole victor of District Eight: Zachariah Daniels. The moments Hospes looked upon it, his body lurched backward as if he had just stumbled upon a revolting, oozing carcass, and he lifted his upper lip into a snarl. It would be Hospes’s luck that his compartment would be in the same car as Daniels’s; he didn’t find it particularly fair, or really reasonable. His business was to help and guide the tributes through the perpetual whirlwind that was the media and publicity that went along with the Hunger Games; so, if that was the case, why couldn’t he share a car with them, not be forced to sleep next to one of the most distasteful devils he had ever met?
They’re plotting against me, Hospes decided (and which he may or may not have believed), a very low rumble reverberating from the back of his throat. He tore his gaze from the compartment in disgusted resolution, whipped his body about, and marched towards a thin door that was tucked away, directly beside the compartment that Hospes had recently exited. He stopped before it; pressed his palm against the wall, as if the pressure he was leaning onto that hand was keeping the wall upright, and kept his eyes trained on the small, circular window that had been cut into the door. Through it, Hospes watched the world move: the buildings suddenly jerk into sight, then be yanked out of it; the people, standing perfectly still as they watched the train pass by, yet somehow zip by before Hospes’s eyes. His emaciated fingers bounced against the wall, only his palm remaining rest upon the wall, and he tapped his toes against the maple flooring.
Just forget, Hospes told himself. Forget everything. The Twenty-seventh Hunger Games never happened. Babydoll Rosek – never born. Zachariah Daniels – just a ghost; people die to be ignored. Nothing happened. Nothing shall happen this year. Just keep moving. That’s all it takes to survive: movement.
By some act of Providence, his job was still his. The government – the body of men that had appointed him to his career and currently controlled – had ignored all the magazines that had surged forward to attack him. He didn’t truly understand it: did the government just habitually ignore the press? That wouldn’t make sense, though – after all, the boys upstairs are very sensitive to slander, after all… Or did they just not care? Was it possible that the political officials of the Capitol were actually smart enough to ignore the mad and drunken ravings of a distastefully disturbing victor? Or did they just not care what was said about some silly, insignificant escort?
Hospes shook his head for a brief moment, to destroy the questions. Didn’t happen, didn’t happen, didn’t happen, he reminded himself. But it was rather difficult to forget; the memories were painful and torturous: however, the aftermath of it all left him with a rather blissful, serene happiness that he did not feel often. Hospes felt foolish for feeling this way; but it could not be helped: he was triumphant. His reputation had been besmirched by the gossiping press and his body physically attacked by some stupid, hypocritical man accusing him of the worst sorts of perversion – and he had survived. He could walk away from the whole blasted thing, and act as if it had never happened. Yes, he would think on it, and it would be torturous to do so; but no longer did he have to worry about it. For Hospes still had what was his: his job, his life, his loves – children and public speaking. Nothing had been taken away from him. And what of reputation, really? What if some people, who had not been caught up in the buzz of the post-Games events and had the heart to care what happened to children, looked upon him and remembered what was said about him? That did not matter. Hospes was antisocial; he hated people – why should he care what people, the very abominations he abhorred, whispered about him and glared at him from the corners of their eyes? They were not but silly mortals; but Hospes Compleo, for a day, for an hour, felt – was – immortal.
The silver juggernaut had slackened terribly in speed; it was not but an elongated snail, creeping through the depot at a sluggish, cautious pace. The world before the window was no more than a bunch of blurring pictures, being yanked into and out of view. A whistle screamed the train’s arrival; the train’s sole procession – it’s lonely bugler. As if commanded, the door that Hospes stood before slid open, tucking itself away into a slit in the wall. Without any further ado, the escort lifted his foot, and permitted it to rest against the cement back of the station’s platform.
The almighty Hospes Fae Compleo, god among mortals, escort among tributes, was in District Eight.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Hospes didn’t listen to the annual history lesson; he never did – never had. It was a waste of time; and Hospes, who was rather intolerant of wastes of time, found it a test of will and patience to sit along as the mayor went on, his ovular stomach quivering as he traipsed along the stage in the district square, declaring that the districts were not but defiant, evil little slaves that deserved to have their guts slit open and their fingernails pried off and their eyeballs plucked. But the Capitol was like a parent to a naughty child; temperate, but intolerant of the little brat’s vice and rebellion – so, instead of torturing the damnable little dear to death(though it rightly deserved to be), it was going to take all its offspring and throw it into a raging and gore-slick piece of Hell, in penance for the crimes that were committed against it.
Of course, that wasn’t actually what the mayor was saying; but Hospes believed that he might as well. The mayor was giving his annual speech in a politely nationalistic way, relishing sentimental phrases like “brother fought against brother” – as was all expected of him by the Capitol. Hospes wasn’t certain if he really appreciated the speech as he was meant to; after all, being a Capitolite, one would have thought that he would be honored and gratified, that such passion and hero-worship and apologizing would be spewed from the leader – and thusly the representative – of the sinful and savage district people, towards him and all his Capitolite brethren. But Hospes did not think this; for anyone with a workable mind knew that “the annual history lesson” (as Hospes called it – and he had always received his worst marks in history all throughout his school-life) was not but a twenty-minute, useless slice of propaganda that everyone was forced to endure.
Hospes craned his neck forward, and leaned slightly to the left in his seat, to peer at the mass of dirty, gaunt faces. I wonder what’s going through their minds right now… One thing that irked him about the residents of the districts was that they were so expressionless; any faces that he could make out from his point of view was completely still, without thought or emotion. It was a rather jarring paradox from the Capitol; there, people did their best to work and contort their faces about, to reveal every little emotion that boiled and formed within them. One could always tell what a Capitolite was thinking; however, the men of district origin were so beyond stoicism during a reaping that one might have wondered if there was any sentience within them – if they were not but hollow shells that had been shaped from stone.
It was easy to attempt to guess, however – at least, what the parents and children were going through. Though Hospes was not one to be truly sympathetic towards tributes, or to honestly go beyond the veil of entertainment that the government had thrown over the Hunger Games, he was very much alert to what happened in the Games (for he had cringed many times whilst watching a young tribute – not an older one mind you, for he couldn’t give a crap about older tributes – fall in the arena): the tragedy; the loss of home, of mother, of father. He could imagine very well that this day of the year was most nerve-racking to a twelve year old and its family; and Hospes had enough of a heart within him to empathize with them, so long as the tribute was of young age and strong enough not to submit to his fears.
The mayor finished his speech with a flourish of his hand and a curt introduction for Hospes, and then waddled off, his immense girth weighing him down and causing his knees to bend partially beneath him, somehow keeping the obese fellow upright. The escort promptly proceeded to lift himself up to his feet; and to watch him do so would have been like watching an actor slip elusively into character, before he went out on stage. Hospes’s body, as he had been seated, had once taken on a very rigid, very still pose; now, it was light and he moved to the front of the stage in quick, energetic jerks of the appendages; as he had been looking out into the crowd, pondering their thoughts, his face had held a wide, thin grin that was unmoving as well as unnerving, for it held no true happiness – it was just a cold, malicious bobble glued to Hospes’s countenance. Now, however, the smile was real, delighted, somehow friendly, and – and this was the only time of the year that Hospes looked like this - gentle; respectful.
Hospes stopped a little ways before the microphone. In the flourished movement and tradition of the long-past Vaudeville players, Hospes snatched his top hat by the its brim and dipped his body forward, his hat held over his heart, in a kindly bow of welcome and honor. He held the bow for a second’s pause; then, his body jerked back into an upright position, and his top hat was returned to its perch atop his skull. “So we meet again, eh?” he said, his voice warm, lacking any traces of a Capitol accent (Hospes, being a trained orator, had managed to squeeze out all signs of origin from his voice).
“I’d like to say that it’s all very lovely to be here among you again,” he continued – though none of what he had just said was actually true. There was nothing special to him about being there; what he was doing, what he was saying was all a job – it was what he was good at; it was what he was meant to do. There was joy in the work; there was none in the particular details, such as persons and places that pertained to the work – but the power of the stage was upon him, and with its power Hospes had spoken with such polite and delicate earnestness that it was very easy to believe him, so long as one did not know him personally. “I hope that District 8 has been thriving and well since you welcomed me into your homes last year, and I hope it will continue to do so when we have to part ways once more. And before we begin, I’d just like to say ‘thank you’, District Eight, for letting me be your guest again.” He then added to himself silently: …Not that you had a choice in the matter, but be a dear and humor me.
It was a mixture of the stage’s power and the aforementioned empathy that led him to speak with such respect and amiability. Hospes was not fool enough to embarrass himself in front of the country with flamboyancy and giddiness, as the other escorts did – that was not going to excite the districts; in his honest opinion, nothing could excite the districts. So, if that was the case, if one could not excite a fellow, one could at least console a fellow: tell them that they were important; tell them that they had meaning; that at least one person cared if they lived or died (which Hospes actually didn’t, but he could certainly make it look like he did); that there was more to life than misery, that there could be a light at the tunnel. And if that didn’t work – then nothing would.
“Very well then!” Hospes continued, his voice bright. “I’d better say it before I forget – the other escorts would have me lynched if I broke tradition.” He laughed a small, short, helpless laugh, and cleared his throat, before continuing: “‘Happy Hunger Games…and may the odds…be ever in your favor.” Hospes attempted to say the traditional blessing with some amount of the lightness and dignity that he had used with the rest of his speech, but he had failed to; his folly had been in that he was relishing the quote – drawing it out. He had ended it on a menacing, dark note, his affectionate grin twitching into a dark, hateful, murderous smirk that darkened and contorted his face for a second, before it suddenly jerked back into a kindly, happy smile.
Hospes, not noticing this slip, continued with the reaping. “Now – time to decide on District Eight’s future victor!” Keep it optimistic; try to comfort them. “Ladies first, of course!” He whirled about, and stepped over to a glass bowl, filled to the brim with the small slips of paper, each one bearing the name of a young female resident of the district. Hospes gripped the cuff of his sleeve, and proceeded to roll it up till it was bunched up halfway up his forearm. He then extended his hand, letting the fingers bend into hook-like shapes, making it look as if he was waving a claw above the bowl; he shoved into the cluster of names, his fingers shoving and pushing them, till at least he found the one he thought was best, and withdrew it.
He proceeded to the microphone; cleared his throat politely as he opened it. “Miss Daisa O’Sullivan!” Hospes lowered the slip of paper; looked up, allowing himself to fall silent as the new tribute made her way up to the stage. She was a black-haired lass, with a handsome enough face (Hospes supposed), and unfortunately, obviously not twelve, or anyone near the childish age that Hospes preferred his tributes at – but there was no point in complaining. And once she was on the stage, Hospes – still enthralled by the stage’s magical abilities - gave her a kindly smile, and a curt nod of welcome.
“Now for the gentlemen!” Hospes announced, allowing Daisa’s slip of paper to slip from his fingers and drift to his feet. He went to the boys’ bowl, going through the same process of deciding on a paper slip that he had undergone whilst he was at the girls’ bowl, and stepped back to his place at the microphone with a slip in hand. He opened it; and called out: “Mister Adam Moria!"
______________________________________________________
Here are the tributes (in case y'all didn't get that):
EDIT: Thanks to Elissa for making the boy tribbie! :3
The defiance of its creators had been passed down to the train. It swept through a forest that had stood for generations; its foliage had been planted long before what the historians currently called “the Recreation Period”, when man struggled out of the ashes of war and evil to turn the human race into man again. The forest was archaic, still, indolent; the train tore through it, its tracks a pair of thin metal scars on a sea of the most verdant and natural grass known to man, the land-rocket new, fresh, despicably modern, fast, insolent. As it passed, whatever animals that were in the vicinity immediately bolted, with the same terror that the creatures feel when they smell humans approaching; and they looked upon it with the same wariness and alertness as when they look upon the deadliest and cruelest member of the animal kingdom, the snake: which the train almost was; a long, metallic serpent, its hiss being the elegant, breathy whoosh noise that it emitted as it rushed past.
In a sense, it was almost like a battle of wills was raging between the train and the forest. The forest showing off its cluster of blade-shaped leaves, waving them menacingly at the train whenever a breeze blew by, the rustling noise that came from the forest’s arms being easily translated into a growl of warning; the trees claiming this their property, this land their homeland – the train and its creatures could not have it. The train continued along on its merry way, it aforementioned whoosh noise like a laugh; for they who had created it, they who currently occupied it, they who currently commanded it knew that the forest and all that stood upon would someday be theirs, and that manifesto was the only thing the train needed to defeat the forest. And it worked; the forest began to give way, to diminish, to weaken. The density and vastness of its trees lessened; the growl/rustle that the branches had rattled at the train became less audible with each mile, less angry, less intimidating; the flourish of leaves that the trees (the forest’s warriors) had presented menacingly toward the train quickly became a less eye-catching spectacle. Soon, it became so that the train passed merely a row of sickly, lanky saplings with drooping branches and trunks, before going into a field – a long, wide strip of grass; the forest’s last act of defiance, before it complied to the will of the train and the romantic manifesto it bore. And with its compliance, the train promptly found itself among men again.
Within a compartment of the serpentine shuttle, there was a man who had fallen asleep, and was very pleased to be asleep, so we really oughtn’t to disturb, now should we? The compartment was ritzy as well classical, with furniture crafted in the Victorian style, but having been painted in gold or bright, neon colors. A large chandelier with glass that had been cut into the shape of crystals dangled from the ceiling, stretching its lanky, curling arms in all manners of direction.
The fellow that we had acknowledged in the preceding paragraph had fallen asleep upon a long, luxurious sofa of velvet, that, like its other brethren in the compartment, was of Victorian design. Though it was usually of most men’s habit (including this one’s!) to stretch themselves out in some languid, relaxed manner and close their eyes, this one was slightly different: for he was not sleeping, he was napping, and believe me, when you are this particular fellow, “sleeping” and napping” are two very separate things. For, when this man napped, he sat up straight in a very rigid, straight position, with his hands entwined and set upon his lap, and with his crimsonish eyes actually dilated, making it appear as if he was staring straight into another universe (and perhaps he was, in his dreams) with a rather awe-inspired, slack-jawed expression, for his mouth was partially open, breathing in slow, relaxed pants as he napped.
I think it would be rather good fun if we disturbed him, no? After all, we can’t have a post about someone napping, no matter how strange said nap is! Ah, here we go: it was then that a rather handsome-faced Capitolite official in his twenties and had very little experience in his field entered the compartment, and stopped himself suddenly, as his eyes landed upon the napping fellow. A large, pleased smile stretched itself across his face, and he said to the napper: “Ah, there you are, Mister Compleo!”
“Mister Compleo” did not react, however; the younger man’s voice failed to breach his slumber. The official – not realizing that his charge was in the realm of sleeping presently – found this rather odd, and furrowed his brow in his confusion. “Mister Compleo?” he asked whilst he drew nearer to Hospes, hoping that the recognition of the sound of his own name would stir the escort into a state of awareness. It promptly failed, however; Hospes continued to “stare” at his wall, his flanks heaving slowly, and then depressing in size – the only real signs of life that the younger man could see. A sudden, panging blast of frustration entered the fellow, and it cocktailed with his confusion. Is he ignoring me on purpose or something? he wondered, as he set his knuckles upon either corner of his pelvis. After all, some of his colleagues had described Hospes as a “difficult guy” – though, until presently, he could not say that he was sure if he was in agreement with his colleagues’ choice of words: for, from what little he had seen of Hospes, the escort was compliant, if not quite snappish and bearing some condescending, spiteful aloofness about him. But aside from those traits, Hospes really hadn’t given him as much trouble as the young official’s colleagues had led him to expect; sure, the escort had once seemed to have randomly appeared out of thin air directly behind him, which – admittedly – had struck panic into the official’s youthful heart for a split second, but aside from that, he had very little to complain about the older male.
At the remembrance of that particular, singular event, the young fellow also recalled a time when he was chatting with a pair of older Capitol attendants/officials, who had been at the occupation for far longer than he had, and had both worked under Hospes at one point. The discussion topic switched many times; eventually, it somehow came to the young man’s near future in the job, and the escort he was to be attending upon. “Oh, yeah. Mister Compleo? Oh. Wow. Yeah, I worked under him for a while,” said one female official. “He’s kinda…out there, if you know what I mean.”
“Really?” he had replied.
“You know what I think?” said the other official, in a flat, dry voice. “I think he’s a freak.”
With those words floating and darting about in the young man’s mind, he presently extended his palm towards Hospes, set it upon his shoulder, and proceeded to jostle him, till finally, Hospes’s eyelids started to flutter up and down at a rapid speed, and his mouth sealed itself, for he was now very much awake. As quick as a flash, Hospes’s head whipped about so his face could point towards the younger fellow’s own countenance; his red eyes, once glazed over and made to look thoughtless by sleep, was now twinkling with sentient intelligence and seemed to dye themselves an even deeper shade of gules, as indignation and rage proceeded to boil and rattle violently within him. Noticing this odd change, the other fellow quickly ceased his jostling, but forgot to remove his hand from Hospes’s shoulder. The escort’s eyes darted down to the fellow’s hand, then back up to his face. “My dear,” Hospes began, as he hissed through a set of gnashing teeth, “you are invading my personal space.”
His eyes flickered down to the back of his hand; promptly, his eyebrows lifted themselves higher on his forehead. “Oh!” He jerked his hand away from Hospes’s shoulder. “My apologies, sir; it’s just – you weren’t paying me any attention, and I-”
Hospes interrupted him, and responded in a waspish hiss: “My dear boy, I was asleep. Of course I wasn’t paying you any attention – you needn’t treat it as if it’s a rare occurrence.”
The other flinched, and he knitted his brows together in confusion. “But, sir – your eyes were open…”
Hospes wrinkled his nose in a contemptuous, insolent manner. “That’s the most idiotic thing I’ve ever heard!” he snorted, and lifted a part of his upper lip in a disgusted snarl. The boy promptly opened his mouth to object; however, Hospes rose from the sofa in a stiff manner, as if his joints had rusted over whilst he was napping, and thus silenced him with the movement. He then added: “My dear boy, why are you even here?”
The fellow pressed his lips together and rubbed them against each other; his nostrils flared as he sucked in one long inhale through his nasal passages. “The train’s just about to stop in the station,” he said, his voice even. “I’d say – fifteen minutes?”
Hospes paused for a minute, his eyes flicking up and down in their sockets as he processed this. He turned his face, and tilted his chin up a little higher, so he could read a clock that hung on the wall opposite of him. Immediately, Hospes flinched, his eyebrows arched, and his head whirled around to face the official. However, despite the quick, jerk-like movements, which would often suggest panic, his voice was smooth, calm and the speech slow: “We’re already ten minutes late.”
The official stiffened. “Oh, uh – yeah. Sorry.”
As he was stammering and apologizing, Hospes bent over so his body became ninety degrees angle, his lanky arms reaching down towards an ornately crafted coffee tables that stood a little ways before the sofa that he had been resting on. His fingers knotted around a black coat and top hat of a matching color, and he gathered them to his chest in a gentle, yet swift embrace. “I’d ask why,” Hospes grunted, as he stood up, and then set the top hat gingerly upon his orange hair, “but we really haven’t the time for questions, do we?”
The corner of the official’s mouth dipped down to form a long frown, before suddenly twisting into a cheery smile. “Oh, c’mon now, Mister Compleo! It’s a big day for everybody – don’t be grumps!” he chuckled, in an attempt to lighten the escort’s mood.
“I am not ‘grumps’!” Hospes snapped with a wrinkled nose. “‘Grumps’ isn’t even an adjective,” he grumbled, as he wrapped the coat about himself, and then proceeded to shove his arms into their sleeves. He swept past the official, his fingers twisting around the buttons of his coat. His attire for “the big day” (as the official called it) was, in reality, essentially what he wore on a daily basis, only with a top hat that would make people of our age remember President Abraham Lincoln, and the coat he wore today had thin coattails wagged and fluttered behind him as he moved. However, beyond those things, everything else was things Hospes would wear around the home: a sleek, striped vest of a rather mundane soot color, with an ebony tie of very little width being tucked into it; hiding behind the vest and the tie was a very plain, button-up shirt of the white color, being neatly pressed and absolutely pure of any blots or stains. The trousers were straight and black, the shoes formal and glossy in their polish; the whole set of attire being strict and formal, lacking any flamboyance and languidness that his birthplace had become so infamous for.
Hospes departed from the compartment, and entered a long, narrow passage that slashed through the center of the car, bifurcating the car and separating his compartment and the compartment that was reserved for the sole victor of District Eight: Zachariah Daniels. The moments Hospes looked upon it, his body lurched backward as if he had just stumbled upon a revolting, oozing carcass, and he lifted his upper lip into a snarl. It would be Hospes’s luck that his compartment would be in the same car as Daniels’s; he didn’t find it particularly fair, or really reasonable. His business was to help and guide the tributes through the perpetual whirlwind that was the media and publicity that went along with the Hunger Games; so, if that was the case, why couldn’t he share a car with them, not be forced to sleep next to one of the most distasteful devils he had ever met?
They’re plotting against me, Hospes decided (and which he may or may not have believed), a very low rumble reverberating from the back of his throat. He tore his gaze from the compartment in disgusted resolution, whipped his body about, and marched towards a thin door that was tucked away, directly beside the compartment that Hospes had recently exited. He stopped before it; pressed his palm against the wall, as if the pressure he was leaning onto that hand was keeping the wall upright, and kept his eyes trained on the small, circular window that had been cut into the door. Through it, Hospes watched the world move: the buildings suddenly jerk into sight, then be yanked out of it; the people, standing perfectly still as they watched the train pass by, yet somehow zip by before Hospes’s eyes. His emaciated fingers bounced against the wall, only his palm remaining rest upon the wall, and he tapped his toes against the maple flooring.
Just forget, Hospes told himself. Forget everything. The Twenty-seventh Hunger Games never happened. Babydoll Rosek – never born. Zachariah Daniels – just a ghost; people die to be ignored. Nothing happened. Nothing shall happen this year. Just keep moving. That’s all it takes to survive: movement.
By some act of Providence, his job was still his. The government – the body of men that had appointed him to his career and currently controlled – had ignored all the magazines that had surged forward to attack him. He didn’t truly understand it: did the government just habitually ignore the press? That wouldn’t make sense, though – after all, the boys upstairs are very sensitive to slander, after all… Or did they just not care? Was it possible that the political officials of the Capitol were actually smart enough to ignore the mad and drunken ravings of a distastefully disturbing victor? Or did they just not care what was said about some silly, insignificant escort?
Hospes shook his head for a brief moment, to destroy the questions. Didn’t happen, didn’t happen, didn’t happen, he reminded himself. But it was rather difficult to forget; the memories were painful and torturous: however, the aftermath of it all left him with a rather blissful, serene happiness that he did not feel often. Hospes felt foolish for feeling this way; but it could not be helped: he was triumphant. His reputation had been besmirched by the gossiping press and his body physically attacked by some stupid, hypocritical man accusing him of the worst sorts of perversion – and he had survived. He could walk away from the whole blasted thing, and act as if it had never happened. Yes, he would think on it, and it would be torturous to do so; but no longer did he have to worry about it. For Hospes still had what was his: his job, his life, his loves – children and public speaking. Nothing had been taken away from him. And what of reputation, really? What if some people, who had not been caught up in the buzz of the post-Games events and had the heart to care what happened to children, looked upon him and remembered what was said about him? That did not matter. Hospes was antisocial; he hated people – why should he care what people, the very abominations he abhorred, whispered about him and glared at him from the corners of their eyes? They were not but silly mortals; but Hospes Compleo, for a day, for an hour, felt – was – immortal.
The silver juggernaut had slackened terribly in speed; it was not but an elongated snail, creeping through the depot at a sluggish, cautious pace. The world before the window was no more than a bunch of blurring pictures, being yanked into and out of view. A whistle screamed the train’s arrival; the train’s sole procession – it’s lonely bugler. As if commanded, the door that Hospes stood before slid open, tucking itself away into a slit in the wall. Without any further ado, the escort lifted his foot, and permitted it to rest against the cement back of the station’s platform.
The almighty Hospes Fae Compleo, god among mortals, escort among tributes, was in District Eight.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Hospes didn’t listen to the annual history lesson; he never did – never had. It was a waste of time; and Hospes, who was rather intolerant of wastes of time, found it a test of will and patience to sit along as the mayor went on, his ovular stomach quivering as he traipsed along the stage in the district square, declaring that the districts were not but defiant, evil little slaves that deserved to have their guts slit open and their fingernails pried off and their eyeballs plucked. But the Capitol was like a parent to a naughty child; temperate, but intolerant of the little brat’s vice and rebellion – so, instead of torturing the damnable little dear to death(though it rightly deserved to be), it was going to take all its offspring and throw it into a raging and gore-slick piece of Hell, in penance for the crimes that were committed against it.
Of course, that wasn’t actually what the mayor was saying; but Hospes believed that he might as well. The mayor was giving his annual speech in a politely nationalistic way, relishing sentimental phrases like “brother fought against brother” – as was all expected of him by the Capitol. Hospes wasn’t certain if he really appreciated the speech as he was meant to; after all, being a Capitolite, one would have thought that he would be honored and gratified, that such passion and hero-worship and apologizing would be spewed from the leader – and thusly the representative – of the sinful and savage district people, towards him and all his Capitolite brethren. But Hospes did not think this; for anyone with a workable mind knew that “the annual history lesson” (as Hospes called it – and he had always received his worst marks in history all throughout his school-life) was not but a twenty-minute, useless slice of propaganda that everyone was forced to endure.
Hospes craned his neck forward, and leaned slightly to the left in his seat, to peer at the mass of dirty, gaunt faces. I wonder what’s going through their minds right now… One thing that irked him about the residents of the districts was that they were so expressionless; any faces that he could make out from his point of view was completely still, without thought or emotion. It was a rather jarring paradox from the Capitol; there, people did their best to work and contort their faces about, to reveal every little emotion that boiled and formed within them. One could always tell what a Capitolite was thinking; however, the men of district origin were so beyond stoicism during a reaping that one might have wondered if there was any sentience within them – if they were not but hollow shells that had been shaped from stone.
It was easy to attempt to guess, however – at least, what the parents and children were going through. Though Hospes was not one to be truly sympathetic towards tributes, or to honestly go beyond the veil of entertainment that the government had thrown over the Hunger Games, he was very much alert to what happened in the Games (for he had cringed many times whilst watching a young tribute – not an older one mind you, for he couldn’t give a crap about older tributes – fall in the arena): the tragedy; the loss of home, of mother, of father. He could imagine very well that this day of the year was most nerve-racking to a twelve year old and its family; and Hospes had enough of a heart within him to empathize with them, so long as the tribute was of young age and strong enough not to submit to his fears.
The mayor finished his speech with a flourish of his hand and a curt introduction for Hospes, and then waddled off, his immense girth weighing him down and causing his knees to bend partially beneath him, somehow keeping the obese fellow upright. The escort promptly proceeded to lift himself up to his feet; and to watch him do so would have been like watching an actor slip elusively into character, before he went out on stage. Hospes’s body, as he had been seated, had once taken on a very rigid, very still pose; now, it was light and he moved to the front of the stage in quick, energetic jerks of the appendages; as he had been looking out into the crowd, pondering their thoughts, his face had held a wide, thin grin that was unmoving as well as unnerving, for it held no true happiness – it was just a cold, malicious bobble glued to Hospes’s countenance. Now, however, the smile was real, delighted, somehow friendly, and – and this was the only time of the year that Hospes looked like this - gentle; respectful.
Hospes stopped a little ways before the microphone. In the flourished movement and tradition of the long-past Vaudeville players, Hospes snatched his top hat by the its brim and dipped his body forward, his hat held over his heart, in a kindly bow of welcome and honor. He held the bow for a second’s pause; then, his body jerked back into an upright position, and his top hat was returned to its perch atop his skull. “So we meet again, eh?” he said, his voice warm, lacking any traces of a Capitol accent (Hospes, being a trained orator, had managed to squeeze out all signs of origin from his voice).
“I’d like to say that it’s all very lovely to be here among you again,” he continued – though none of what he had just said was actually true. There was nothing special to him about being there; what he was doing, what he was saying was all a job – it was what he was good at; it was what he was meant to do. There was joy in the work; there was none in the particular details, such as persons and places that pertained to the work – but the power of the stage was upon him, and with its power Hospes had spoken with such polite and delicate earnestness that it was very easy to believe him, so long as one did not know him personally. “I hope that District 8 has been thriving and well since you welcomed me into your homes last year, and I hope it will continue to do so when we have to part ways once more. And before we begin, I’d just like to say ‘thank you’, District Eight, for letting me be your guest again.” He then added to himself silently: …Not that you had a choice in the matter, but be a dear and humor me.
It was a mixture of the stage’s power and the aforementioned empathy that led him to speak with such respect and amiability. Hospes was not fool enough to embarrass himself in front of the country with flamboyancy and giddiness, as the other escorts did – that was not going to excite the districts; in his honest opinion, nothing could excite the districts. So, if that was the case, if one could not excite a fellow, one could at least console a fellow: tell them that they were important; tell them that they had meaning; that at least one person cared if they lived or died (which Hospes actually didn’t, but he could certainly make it look like he did); that there was more to life than misery, that there could be a light at the tunnel. And if that didn’t work – then nothing would.
“Very well then!” Hospes continued, his voice bright. “I’d better say it before I forget – the other escorts would have me lynched if I broke tradition.” He laughed a small, short, helpless laugh, and cleared his throat, before continuing: “‘Happy Hunger Games…and may the odds…be ever in your favor.” Hospes attempted to say the traditional blessing with some amount of the lightness and dignity that he had used with the rest of his speech, but he had failed to; his folly had been in that he was relishing the quote – drawing it out. He had ended it on a menacing, dark note, his affectionate grin twitching into a dark, hateful, murderous smirk that darkened and contorted his face for a second, before it suddenly jerked back into a kindly, happy smile.
Hospes, not noticing this slip, continued with the reaping. “Now – time to decide on District Eight’s future victor!” Keep it optimistic; try to comfort them. “Ladies first, of course!” He whirled about, and stepped over to a glass bowl, filled to the brim with the small slips of paper, each one bearing the name of a young female resident of the district. Hospes gripped the cuff of his sleeve, and proceeded to roll it up till it was bunched up halfway up his forearm. He then extended his hand, letting the fingers bend into hook-like shapes, making it look as if he was waving a claw above the bowl; he shoved into the cluster of names, his fingers shoving and pushing them, till at least he found the one he thought was best, and withdrew it.
He proceeded to the microphone; cleared his throat politely as he opened it. “Miss Daisa O’Sullivan!” Hospes lowered the slip of paper; looked up, allowing himself to fall silent as the new tribute made her way up to the stage. She was a black-haired lass, with a handsome enough face (Hospes supposed), and unfortunately, obviously not twelve, or anyone near the childish age that Hospes preferred his tributes at – but there was no point in complaining. And once she was on the stage, Hospes – still enthralled by the stage’s magical abilities - gave her a kindly smile, and a curt nod of welcome.
“Now for the gentlemen!” Hospes announced, allowing Daisa’s slip of paper to slip from his fingers and drift to his feet. He went to the boys’ bowl, going through the same process of deciding on a paper slip that he had undergone whilst he was at the girls’ bowl, and stepped back to his place at the microphone with a slip in hand. He opened it; and called out: “Mister Adam Moria!"
______________________________________________________
Here are the tributes (in case y'all didn't get that):
DAISA O'SULLIVAN
&
ADAM MORIA
&
ADAM MORIA
EDIT: Thanks to Elissa for making the boy tribbie! :3
