Slug Lev [District 6 Victor of the 15th Hunger Games](WIP)
Jul 11, 2013 17:54:33 GMT -5
Post by Raeoki on Jul 11, 2013 17:54:33 GMT -5
Lev, Slug Felix
Victor of the 15th Hunger Games
HELL YES.
Taking Over This Town, They Should Worry;
But These Problems Aside, I Think I've Taught You Well...
{DAY 2}
Well, well, well! Day Two, and only eleven tributes left! Less than half, did you know? Oh, yes! Around thirteen tributes dead – and already, Mrs. Higglesworm! Oh, my! The Bloodbath last night was so exciting, wasn’t it? Oh, I absolutely loved the twist at the beginning, with that wall of electricity and all that! The Gamemakers are soooo creative, are they not? Oh ho ho ho! Oh – oh? A Hunger Games musical, you think they should manage? Oh! Oh ho ho! That would be sooo entertaining, Mrs. Higglesworm! Do you think they’d make one?
Oh! Oh, hush, everyone! The show’s coming on! Set your coffee down and glue your eyes to the screen~!
Ahem! Most apologies, audience. I had company to entertain. Dreadful things, company. Quite distracting. But anyway – on with the Games…
On the flagstoned plaza that enshrines the Cornucopia, a short, hazy mist has fallen, drifting across the ground in lazy, filmy vapors. Above, the sky is becoming a gray with shadows stretching across it, as if the night refuses to be vacuumed out from the sky. A few brave stars still wink down from the sky; to the west lies the hotel, with light still beaming from the majority of the windows, except for one, in which still resides the District 10 female, who has turned the lights of her room off.
Most of the tributes have remained in their campsites since the night fell across the arena like an inky curtain. The only one that had moved had been Ayn Brookenford, who had only slept for an hour before her eyes had sprung open and she went on a nightly prowl, creeping from her closet with the stealth of a jungle cat and slinking through the corridors of the hotel with the might of a lion and the slyness of a fox. She made not a noise as she explored the hallways –and that was all that she did. She merely explored; it did not appear as if she was in the hunt for anything, nor anyone. She nibbled and she sipped her rations, she slunk around – and then, when she realized that the sun was peeking over the horizon, she found another closet, checked that it was safe, secured the door with a lock and various items and then went back to sleep. And that was that.
Now, however, that sun has crawled further, so that we may eye its entire upper half, other sure predators are stirring. This one is Dishrag Kelly, who sits atop the Cornucopia, one foot set confidently atop the Cornucopia and the other dangling listlessly at its side. She stares out at the horizon with a perpetual hyena smile; then, she snips the throwing scissor in her hand, and with a shrill, but muffled “whook!” she flings herself from her perch and drops. She lands into the mist soundlessly; her pace is brusque as she hurries up to the mouth of the Cornucopia; she peers inside, and her hyena face twists into an eager smirk as she looks down at her allies. She “whoooooks!”, and then cries: “Move yer asses, bitches! We gotta day ahead of us!”
All promptly awaken: Palanquin clenches her eyelids, and they wrinkle profusely as she silently refuses to open them; Solana opens her eyes, but she is sluggish as she lifts herself to her feet; Pip and Digit spring to their feet as if Dishrag’s profanities were cues.
“Good Lord, Dishrag!” Digit exclaims as he reaches behind himself to scratch his back. “You were supposed to take just the first watch; did you take the last one too, or were you awake all night?”
Dishrag’s not telling; all she does is snicker at him, as if she’s remembering a spy of a joke.
Solana lifts her chin up, and blinks. “I had second watch,” she informs him. “She never woke me up.”
Digit opens his mouth, but Dishrag promptly snaps his words back into his mouth, and his jaws flinch close. “Shut yer trap, Wet Nurse!” she snaps. Solana doesn’t flinch; she only presses her lips close together and stares quietly at Dishrag. I suppose she’s learned to contain that twelve-year-old side of hers already.
Dishrag swoops her attention away from Solana, and it seizes Palanquin, who has still not opened her eyes. Her smirk slithers higher up her face, and with a profound determination that lifts her feet up then down in a marching rhythm, she starts toward Palanquin, and barks as she does so: “‘Ay, Wallflower! Move yer ass, or else I’ll tear it-”
The moment Dishrag refers to Palanquin by her nickname, “Wallflower”, the girl’s eyes spring open, and she throws herself to her feet. However, this doesn’t alter Dishrag’s course; she keeps marching and threatening, with a malicious glint in her eye that is so horrid that one would think it could murder well on its own, and Dishrag’s muscles are tense, as if her body’s itching to deal a blow. All the others see this, and all react: Palanquin backs away, and her face is paler than snow; Solana’s jaw clenches; Pip, her face now austere with a cold and dangerous anger, reaches for her vacuum cleaner; it is Digit, however, who throws himself in front of Dishrag and ends the violence before it can begin.
“There’s no need for that, now, Kelly!” he grunts at her. “Go to the larder and take breakfast, alright?”
Dishrag’s glistening eyes narrow, but her smirk slithers higher. “If there ain’t no need for it, then what do we need, eh, Brainiac?” she snickers, in that same vague manner that alludes to some secret joke of hers. The throwing scissor in her hand snips eagerly.
Digit purses his lip, and lifts his palm and pushes the air gently – a silent signal for Dishrag to calm herself. “What we need is unity and forgiveness amongst ourselves, Kelly,” he says, his voice smoother than silk. “Now, let’s take a breath and step back…”
Dishrag does no such thing; the snipping of the scissor quickens.
Pip’s grip on her vacuum cleaner’s handle tightens, and with a wrinkle of her nose she takes the rod that acts as the spine of the vacuum and lifts the vacuum off its wheels. She leans forward, her muscles tighten, and she growls: “Use those scissors and you shall be the first to die today, Kelly.”
Dishrag’s slithering, smirking lips curl upward, showing rows of bleached fangs that had clearly been artificially whitened by the girl’s stylist prior to the Games. She snickers a little, and then hisses through her clenched teeth: “Please. I could hose y’all down before any of y’all could even blink.” She snickers again with some peculiar, hyenaish glee – but, rather than validating her threat, she turns from Digit, and skulks up to the pack’s larder, opens up one of the crates, and pulls out an apple that resides within. As her fangs bear down on it, she turns her face towards Pip, and stares at the District 3 tribute with that gleefully homicidal light in her eye. Pip narrows her eyes, but she looks away and takes a seat on the ground, her vacuum readied beside her, one of her hands on its spine and the other fishing into her bag for her morning meal. Others soon follow; Palanquin devours her meal a little sheepishly, with a fragile and wary air about her, and she doesn’t finish her breakfast. Digit and Solana eat a little more confidently, but it’s clear that an anxiety has infected them, also.
When they are through, they gather their bags, load Palanquin up with as much crap as possible, and they march off for their hunting grounds: the hotel.
“It’s the only place they could have gone, what with the force field blocking the forest – if there’s a forest at all,” Digit informs them, his voice cold, aloof, and technical. “The forest is probably just a hologram to lure unsuspecting idiots into their trap.”
Solana’s eyes flinch upward. “Mooney wasn’t an idiot,” she protests, her voice calm and matter-of-fact – but, as a nuance of anger shimmers beneath the calm exterior of her little face, it’s clear it’s a protest.
“He was whinier than shit,” Dishrag snickers. “Should’ve call ‘im ‘Whiney Crackers’.”
Solana’s brow furrows, and her eyebrows contract closer together, but she lowers her eyes. I can’t tell if it’s because Solana essentially agrees with Dishrag, if she wasn’t close enough to Mooney to feel the need to further the argument, or if she simply doesn’t want to bicker with Dishrag in particular that silences her.
As the non-career pack travels onward, movement stirs within the hotel. The other tributes are starting to awaken; all that remain asleep are Ayn, who has already done her share of tributing, and the District 9 boy, whose broken jaw must have taken a lot out of him, for he almost refuses to stir and leave his hiding place behind the front desk. In the dining room, the District 10 boy crawls out from beneath his table, promptly takes a seat, and looks down at the table. Overnight, the table has seemed to replenish itself; there is just as much food on the table as there was when the District 10 boy found it. Realizing this, the District 10 boy grins with glee, and sets himself atop the food and drink, not at all concerned about table manners as greedy saliva dribbles from his stuffed mouth.
On the floors above, the District 10 girl has left her suite, showered again and refreshed, and as she nibbles on a ration from her pack, she looks around herself in that shy and jumpy manner that most cautious tributes bear as they search for further food supplies. Beneath her, and only a few walls and a door separating it from the District 10 boy’s feast, there lies the kitchen, and tucked within one of the kitchen’s cabinets is Slug Lev. He has just opened the short door of the cabinet, and is peeking out from the crack of space that separates the door with the cabinet’s threshold. Then, spying no one, Slug gently and quietly eases his way out. He reaches in and grabs his toaster in the same manner; he then gets up, and pauses, looking around himself earnestly, as if in expectation for some horrible creature of the night to set itself upon him; he sneaks around the kitchen in this manner, inspecting every cranny until he is certain that his surroundings are free of any other human being. He smiles, and nods in satisfaction; he returns to the cabinet, sets his toaster on the black-and-white patched floor, and proceeds to drag out his satchel. He kneels down on his haunches like a satisfied bird, and with small and efficient fingers he opens his satchel and begins to pull out the various items within and setting them in separate piles, like a squirrel separating and organizing his nuts. In one pile, an empty tin cup and a canteen; in the other pile, stacked curls of ropes and wires – a stack that becomes such a tower that it reaches up to his knees in his kneeled position. Slug stands up, and standing straddled and akimbo he looks down on his plethora of piled ropes and wires; a grin perches atop his face, one as wily as any good fox, as satisfied as a fattened pig, as thoughtful as a sage owl, as good-natured as a dog.
With this smile, he sets himself upon the other cabinets, upon the drawers, upon the racks; he steals from them their contents, their knives, their cookery devices, their utensils – and he sets them all in a third pile, organized by shape and usage. His fingers take up a coiled rope gently, as if it’s a baby; his eyes fall on the utensils and pots that he has collected, and they narrow, as if he’s concerning his mind with the meaning of life; he holds his chin, and caresses its front with an index finger.
Meanwhile, the non-career pack has entered the hotel. They enter, one by one, Dishrag with her throwing scissors at the ready, then Digit, then Pip, then Palanquin and Solana. They keep clustered together, the tenseness evident in their bodies, and they all move like animals with their hackles up. They glance around; Digit orders, his voice low but rigid with authority: “Check the doors; the counter – anything that one can hide behind.”
They scatter, eyes darting, ears perked, movements rigid, but somehow fluid. While the others peek around corners, it is Dishrag who nears the counter, and just as she is halfway there, a small groan creaks out from behind it – a low, almost muffled noise, but in the intensity and stiffened silence of the moment, it is as loud as a cannon. It snatches all in a fist of stillness, and it drags all eyes in its direction. There is the sound of movement; Dishrag, her face a twisted mess of hyena glee, takes a padded step forward, and she lifts a scissor into the air. Another groan smashes the silence into shards, and then – the back of a head lifts up from behind the counter, then the back of a body. It is the District 9 boy, his fingers gently caressing his snapped and crooked jaw, his body swaying beneath pain and sleep, and completely unaware of the foes behind him.
A timespan smaller than an instance snaps between the rising of the District 9 boy and the movement of Dishrag’s arm; it sweeps down, like a whip, like an executioner throwing down the axe onto a guilty man’s neck. The scissor seems to magically appear in the back of the boy’s skull; the cannon barks in remorse as his body lurches forward, and then he falls to the floor. A swift, hopefully painless death, hopefully innocent of that cold, shuddering realization that his time on earth was doomed.
Digit blinks, his eyebrow twitches upward for a moment, then it lowers, and his face melts into a gooey grin of approval. “Well! Nice job, Kelly!” he says, as if he was no longer concerned of silence. Kelly only snorts, and permits herself a honking “whook” of excitement to trumpet from her. Pip wrinkles her nose and her eyes roll upward, her face an acidic slate and completely unimpressed; she turns her face as if she is discarding a piece of trash. Solana’s face wrinkles and she shudders, but that is all of a reaction we can see from her: her decision to not be a twelve-year-old during these Games must be a steadfast one, for she is capable of turning away and continuing her search for more victims without any other negative emotions to rock her.
It is Palanquin – one of their oldest members – who has been seized by the claws of shock and terror, and now seems enthralled by it. She is quivering as if a jagged tremor has seized the ground beneath her and now rocks it, so hard that even the heavy load on her back and the kitchen knife quivers with her; she is pale again, more ashen than a carcass; her face is slack with a fear that has loosened the muscles, making it impossible for work and battle. Her feet shuffles backward, dragging her body with it, and there’s an odd air around her, as if something on strings is controlling her. It lifts up her empty hand, and it relieves her of her overloaded and fattened pack, and sets it gently on the ground. It shuffles her to the closest exit; it makes her pause, and she looks around, her eyes darting towards all of them, noting them, making sure they’re not looking at her, I bet: then, she’s a rocket, bursting into the next room, moving faster than what would think her heavy frame can bear.
The room that she first enters is the dining room, where, as you might already be aware of, resides the boy from Ten. Fortunately, there is no conflict; Palanquin doesn’t even notice him, and the moment he spots her, he merely dives beneath his table and hides behind the orange, gold-garlanded tablecloth, where he remains even after she departs, mumbling profanities to himself and groveling about how he’ll probably be forced to leave soon.
Palanquin bursts into the kitchen, another room occupied by a tribute - Slug Lev, her district partner. Whether either she or Slug is willing to hold that fact that their home is each other’s home as sacred, I don’t know, but I have a feeling that will be so. But then again, this is the Games.
As Palanquin bursts in through the swinging door, we see Slug atop a counter, using it as a perch as he raises a rope to a wheeled, medium-sized metal shelving that had once contained pots and pans before Slug removed them. He flinches at the sound of his door exploding open, and his little body tightens; then, as his eyes fall on Palanquin’s pale and stiff and heavy frame, his body relaxes, and relief releases the intensity so much so that his body sags a little.
“Pal!” Slug breathes; still holding the rope, he jumps off the counter, looks at her, and pauses. Slowly, the relief that had relaxed him begins to melt, and up rises the intensity of worry, his brow furrowed and his eyes wide with a curious shock and his mouth a rigid line. “What’s wrong?” he adds slowly, his voice firm and wary.
She stares at him for a moment, her eyes wide and dull and empty with frightful idiocy; her body quivers, and then her eyes explode in a gush of tears, and sobs catch and choke in her throat. She doesn’t bother covering them up, as if she does not fear the humiliation of a moment of weakness. “My – my allies!” she cries, the words rattling in her throat. “They – they-”
Slug’s eyes widen, and firm with the intensity of caring. The rope plummets from his hand, and he rushes up to her; the rope is replaced by her arm as he gently lays his fingers on her forearm, and he says, his voice low and soft and as slow as a lullaby: “Are they dead?” (I guess he forgot that only one cannon had been shot since the day started, or he didn’t notice that she had used the plural form of “ally”.) “Has the alliance been dissolved? Did they attack you?”
Palanquin shakes her head as if it was a dripping pendulum. “No! They – they attacked someone else and-” A ragged choking noise strangles the end of her sentence.
Slug pauses, his eyes still hardened by worried care – then, his face loosens with the shock of a blowing realization; he tucks his chin into his throat for a moment, and then he lifts his face up to her, and his fingers start to run up and down the length of her arm. “It’s okay – you don’t have to be with them anymore, if you don’t like it with them.”
Palanquin seems to neither hear nor feel him – she merely continues to stammer over her strangled words: “And – and during the Bloodbath – we were the ones who killed all the careers, you know. And – and they made me kill one of them, even though I told them I didn’t want to, even though I told them that I wanted to help Cashmere keep guard over Solana, but they said I had to, that all the older kids had to kill them off and that they were already risking it by not letting Solana and Cashmere help and – and everything’s so – and Dishrag, she…”
Her fingers become limp; the knife in her hand falls, and it clatters on the floor. Slug’s eyebrows are propelled upward; the corners of his firmed mouth quiver, and, in one gentle and slow motion, he draws her closer and wraps his small arms around her, as if his scrawny, short appendages are a protective shell of hers, like the ones armadillos and snails have.
Meanwhile, the non-career pack has given notice that their pack mule has left them.
“Did she abandon us, or something?” Solana asks herself gently, as her foot prods the fattened sack of supplies that they had forced onto Palanquin’s back.
“She wouldn’t dare!” Dishrag snorts in ragged contempt. “She’s too much of a yellow-bellied coward to!”
Pip’s eyebrow perks up. “Alas, I fear that’s more of a motivation to leave than anything else,” she grunts, her voice cold and precisely crisp.
Digit, who has his foot perched atop the discarded bag and with his arm draped across it like a throw, looks down at the baggage beneath his foot with a calm thoughtfulness, as if the fact that one of his allies has deserted him is merely some curious question for him to ponder over in his free time, rather than some sting to his feelings, rather than a betrayal. “Welp, no point in bothering about it,” he grunts with a small shrug as he lifts his body erect and removes his foot off the bag. “No point in searching for her, either. Let’s just get the bag and get a move on.”
Pip nods slowly. “Yes, that would be the logical thing to do,” she says coolly. She looks up at him with icy, dictatorial eyes that are both brash and intelligent. “Let’s clear out the lower floor, and then work our way up.”
Digit’s mouth twitches into a slight smile. “I like the sound of that. Let’s do it.”
“We’ll cover more distance if we split up.”
Digit frowns at that suggestion, and his eyes flicker down pensively. “Yes, but we’ll also be less powerful, if we do that.”
Pip’s mouth curves into a long, almost perpetual frown, and she grunts: “Well, is this a matter of time, or a matter of strength?”
“Neither; it’s a matter of survival.”
“Doesn’t survival require both?”
“Not necessarily. It depends on what you have. But by technicality, we have both.”
“On the contrary, McGurt,” Pip replies, her voice dripping with icy acid, “we only have strength. As we speak, we are losing what little time we have because you insist on arguing.”
That snaps Digit’s argument as if it is a brittle twig, and one can see the bitterness of defeat wrinkle and smudge his face. He nips his lip, and with his brow furrowed he grumbles his submission. “Very well,” says he; “but we do this only once, do you understand? Just for the initial survivors.” (By “survivors”, I assume he means “survivors of the Bloodbath”.) “And I wash my hands of the blood of whosoever amongst us dies, do you understand?”
Pip’s upper eyelids sag. “But of course,” she grunts, her voice a coarse rattle.
“Kelly, you go with Pip.”
Dishrag promptly snickers in a quaintly perfunctory sort of way, almost as if her snickers come from pity, only they lacked the overtness to be pity-laughs. Pip, in the meanwhile, snaps her lower eyelids so that they squeeze against her upper ones, and she cringes a little, as if she’s been whapped in the jaw. “But of course,” she spits.
“I’ll take Solana with me.” Digit extends his hand, and beckons Solana to his side; she does not hesitate in her obedience. “You go left, we’ll go right. We meet here before the anthem. Understand?”
Pip nods; like an owner quelling his unruly hound, Pip barks Dishrag’s name; the District 8 tribute only snickers in a bizarrely triumphant way, as if she knows something Pip doesn’t, and the two head for the nearest door on the left. Meanwhile, Digit and Solana turn their backs on their departing allies, and head for the nearest door on the right: the grand, velvet-lined, swinging doors to the dining room.
We’re given a brief chance to be reassured that the District 10 boy is currently safe from the sanguinary claws of Digit and Solana. In a clip that lasts approximately fifty seconds, we see the District 10 boy rush up to the door of the dining room’s men’s restroom, hesitate and decide that that was too obvious a hiding place, rush over to the women’s restroom, hesitate and decide that that was too ungentlemanly, run back to the men’s restroom, hesitate, and then finally dive into the women’s restroom, where he then crawls into a stall, and sits on the toilet, relieved and awkward all at the same time. He pauses, leans forward as if he’s about to bolt off the seat, and then leans back, his mouth a thin squiggle on his face. “I need a better hiding place than this,” he sighs, but he seems content enough to hide in a woman’s stall for the duration of the day. Which is, probably, a rather good idea, seeing as how Solana and Digit marched into the dining room the moment the District 10 boy dived into the women’s restroom. And the silly, lazy little thing probably doesn’t even realize that he saved his own life by doing so.
Meanwhile, in Slug’s kitchen, as they both sit on wooden stools, Slug Lev wipes Palanquin’s tear-drenched face with a paper towel, as she laments in brief gasps and chokes: “And – and Dishrag – she – just killed that boy from Nine – what was his name again?”
“Trit, or something. I didn’t know him very well. The only reason I know his name is because the people on the TV would say it, like at the reaping and such.”
“Yeah. Well – well she has these scissors, see, and – and somehow she can just – just toss ‘em – like the careers would do with the knives at the training center, remember? Like that District 2 girl did?”
“Diana. Her name was Diana. Like the goddess.”
“Oh,” Palanquin sniffled. “Dishrag killed her, too. Diane-”
“Diana.” His mouth wriggles a bit, and he looks down like a child being reproved for his naughtiness. “Sorry. Please, continue.”
“Diana was – was trying to kill Digit – and she almost did – but, then again, he was trying to kill her, and – and I don’t know what’s right anymore,” Palanquin wheezes, and her body trembles as she sucks in a harsh breath. “I mean – sure, they were all going to kill us – eventually – and it was only – a matter of survival, but…but then we went and killed them, and…and…What’s right anymore? I mean, what’s better, to just survive or die guiltlessly? But – but then – all the other tributes would have died, too, but now we’re going around and killing them…”
“Don’t say ‘we’, Pal. Don’t, if this will bother you. If you say ‘we’, you’re including yourself amongst a mix you don’t particularly like, and believe me, that won’t make you feel any better about it. It’ll just make you worse.”
Palanquin nods feebly, as if the muscles in her neck are giving her a wretched ache. “I just…” She closes her eyes, her mouth drops open for a moment, and then slowly and tenderly closes with a sigh. “I don’t know. I want…don’t want them all to be dead…I don’t want to be here…I just…want…to go home…I’m not…I’m not…” Her words collapse in a heap of fatigued silence.
As he presses the paper towel to Palanquin’s cheek with one hand, Slug reaches over with his other and enfolds it around her empty, unturned hand that sits like a flipped-over turtle on her knee. His small hand looks like a throw blanket that has been wrapped around a small child, a child desperate to get warm beneath the thin, shortly cut fabric. “You’ll get through it, Pal,” he murmurs, his voice as rhythmic and soft as a hushed lullaby. “We all will. It’s just a matter of will, is all. Everything’s a matter of will. Just get through it. The first step is to keep breathing; the next one is to smile. That’s all it takes. I promise. That’s all it takes.”
Like a scream of thunder on a cloudless summer’s day, the door to the kitchen bursts open.
The two children of District 6 flinch away from each other, and as if their chins are attached to a jerking string, their faces turn in quick unison to the door. In one instant, the sight – the idea – of Solana and Digit standing there together, both armed and both tense, and all knowing now that the play of the thing was to kill whoever really wanted to be king. One can almost see all that Palanquin has told Slug slap his hands empty and shove him off his stool and drag his hand to his toaster, which he had placed at the feet of Palanquin’s stool.
“Oh ho! I suppose you don’t recognize me, eh, Slug?”
I suppose he did not – now, however, all is clear in Slug’s mind as he looks up. “Digit!” he murmurs, his voice both perked and depressed by surprise.
A thin smirk slithers across Digit’s face. “I’m glad that you noticed before you busted my face with that toaster of yours.” His eyes crawl over to Palanquin. “And I see you’ve found our pack mule!”
Both of the Six tributes flinch as if he had thrown a punch at their respective faces; Slug promptly scowls, and grunts: “She’s not a pack mule – she’s a human being.” As he does so, Palanquin begins to shrink back, like an abused animal limping to the back corner of its cage.
Digit shrugs. “Fine, fine. Apples and oranges,” he says as he gestures dismissively. “I’m just glad you found her. We were quite worried about her, a few minutes ago.”
One of Solana’s eyebrows perks up. “We were?” she murmurs under her breath.
“Of course we were!” Digit exclaims suddenly, a little too jovially. “We take care of our allies! Each and every one of us!” He looks at Palanquin, who has now pressed the back of her hip against a sink on the back wall. His chummy smirk creases into a gentle grin. “We were afraid that someone had gotten you. Really, if I may ask, what were you thinking when you took off alone? You’re liable to be killed, that way! Safety in numbers, you know!” he adds with a mild drone of gentle patronization.
“I…” gasps Palanquin in her enthralling trepidation, her eyes shifting, her whitened hands tremulous. “I…”
“I don’t think she cares, if I may say so, Digit,” Slug pipes up, one of his little fingers held politely parallel to his chest.
Digit’s smile dissolves, and his eyebrows lift as if they’re exalting God. “Oh, really?” he murmurs. “Hm! What does she care about, then?”
Slug blinks, as if he’s surprised that the question is directed towards him. “Um…” He turns to look at Palanquin. “Um – that’s more for Pal to decide.”
Digit’s mouth suddenly leaps into the grin. “Hm hm!” he laughs with quiet triumph. “They’ve nicknames for each other. I like that. I like that quite a lot.”
Then Digit and Solana direct their full attention on Palanquin – even though it’s clear by her face that she’s too inundated with sweat-dousing terror for her to take on the arduous task of voluble conversation. However, for a moment, it’s as if all the others in the room are blind to her enthralling trepidation, and they leave her shuddering and dangling on the precipice of self-expectancy. Fortunately, this moment is a quick one, and it dies soon; for, oddly enough, it is Digit who saves her when he turns his attention onto Slug and says: “I suppose I ought to ask you now, while we’re in a moment of relative amity: have you reconsidered my proposal to you, Lion-heart?”
Slug turns his head a little too quickly to look at Digit, as if he thinks he has just made eye contact with someone he saw years ago. He blinks, as if in realization that that person with which he had made eye contact was completely new to him in every way, and he says with a polite smile: “Sorry, but I prefer being a loner, thanks.”
Digit smirks, and with a wrinkly nose he snorts: “Hmph! Preposterous – how can anyone prefer to be a loner? You know, statistically, it’s the ones without allies that are the first to die, Lion-heart.” He pauses, blinks, and smiles in a most gentlemanly chummy sort of fashion. “Are you sure you’re sure?”
“Yes. I’m sure.” Slug turns his gaze to Palanquin, and as he does so a new and healthy fire warms his smile. “Besides, I think I won’t be entirely alone anymore. I’d much like it if Pal would accompany me now.”
Digit’s eyebrows clench closer together, and he attempts an exchanged glance of discontent with Solana – who does not bother to acquiesce to noticing his attempt at exchange – and he says with a frown: “Oh – I was not aware that Palanquin was quitting our little gestalt.” (He finishes with relative relish, as if he’s proud that he knows the existence of the closing word.)
Slug shrugs. “I just now sort of thought of it, to be honest,” he says with a humble smile. “But, ah,” he adds, as he glances at Palanquin with ever-brightening hope, “if she wants to…”
“Yes! Yes!” Her voice is an explosion, shrill with shrapnel and fiery with terror, reaching up to the ceiling as if she is trying to call on God with her voice. “Yes, please, yes!”
Digit’s frown deepens. “Ah, well,” he murmurs, “this was not at all planned.”
“Sorry,” says Slug with a small, tense smile.
Digit casts his eyes to the ground, his eyes narrowing, as if to keep the thoughts that now bubble within his mind from seeping out of the whites of his eyes; then, his head springs erect, and he says suddenly: “Are you sure you don’t want to join us, Lion-heart? We would love to have you.” His frown ever deepens, and he casts a curt glance at Palanquin. “You and Symmetry here both.”
Slug’s smile grows, but becomes tenser now, as if he is bracing himself for something. “Oh, no,” he replies. “Not even if Pal here decides to rejoin. I – I don’t like packs, as I told you before, and…” He shrugs, as if he’s accepting the fact that an important cause has been lost to the opposition. He lifts his chin a little higher, and with a brighter smile, he adds brightly: “I wish you and your pack the best of luck, though!”
Digit only frowns as if he’s been slapped in the face; it is Solana, supposedly the less mature of the two, who receives the blessing and dismissals with kind words and honest smiles. “Same to you!” she chirps. She then turns to Digit and, in another surprise twist of changed roles, reaches out and gives his pants leg a small tug. “C’mon – it’s time to go.”
He looks at her and sneers as if he’s looking down at an annoying Chihuahua – but he turns as she turns anyway, and they both move to the door at the same pace. However, just as Solana passes through the door, Digit pauses, turns, and smiles at the two. “Well then, I suppose this is farewell. I hope you two suit each other well in the arena – but, ah, bear in mind that the next time we meet, I highly doubt that it shall be so…agreeable, as you might imagine. I hate to think of such a reunion, but, you know – this is the Hunger Games.”
Palanquin shamelessly shudders; Slug continues to smile as if he does not realize that it is a threat he is receiving. “Alright, then!” he chirrups. “I suppose we’ll see you when we see you!”
Digit’s smile curls into a smirk, and his confident blue eyes sparkle with a strange, unholy light. He does not turn his face from them as he extends his palm and sets it against the door and then proceeds to open it; he turns slowly, elegantly as he proceeds to move, and as he exits, he says to Solana, whom we can see faintly through the doorway: “Don’t go without me nex-”
The door swings shut then, slicing his words in half. There is a dull, stiff pause within the kitchen as faint words are heard behind the door, then silence. A minute at the most passes; then, a hurried, faint screech of a whisper is heard from Palanquin, hardly glib, but just enough for the context to be understood. “They’re coming…! We...leave!”
Slug blinks, and his eyebrows lift a little. “What?” he says, his voice loud compared to Palanquin’s shrill whisper.
“Shhhh!” Palanquin hisses, gesturing with her hands to emphasize the necessity of silence – though she adds in a slightly higher volume: “We need to leave! We need to leave now! They’re going to come back – they’re going to tell the others that we’re here!”
Slug tilts his head, as if this hypothesis only intrigues him – as if it doesn’t at all allude to any imminent demises. “Oh,” he says thoughtfully. He lifts his face up, and glances around the room. “I – I already sort of had an idea for this place, though…”
“That doesn’t matter! You won’t have time!” Palanquin insists, her eyes wide with maddened terror. “They’re coming, I know it, and they’re coming right now! We need to leave – we need to hide! Somewhere else – somewhere else!”
Slug’s eyelids flutter like two pairs of disoriented butterfly wings. “Oh,” he mumbles dimly, “okay.”
“Get what you need!” Palanquin demands, an edge of authority suddenly rising and sharpening her tremulous whisper. “And then we’ll go, okay? Now hurry!”
Like a man running to save another’s life, Slug shoots into action, as if the voluminous volume Palanquin’s earnestness has finally settled in. He gathers whatever necessities into his bag, he gathers his toaster into one hand, Palanquin’s knife into his other hand – and then they depart the kitchen, slowly, room by room, moving like cats stalking a mouse. As they move, Palanquin’s knife is returned to her, and she wears it on her belt; when they reach the lobby – which, fortunately, is now completely empty – she shudders, and her hand clenches into a rock-like fist around the handle of her blade. Slug notices her tremor out of the corner of his eye, and with gentleness making his features relax into a state of almost fragility, he reaches up and gives her arm a very gentle squeeze, and he holds her like this all throughout their crossing of the lobby. They ascend the stairs, pass a few floors, enter one, and then go to the first hotel room they can find – which they find to be unlocked, and they enter. An inspection of the room promptly follows suit – but all that really earns their interest is a key that sits idly on a nightstand that bifurcates the two beds of the hotel room. Palanquin snatches it up and shoves it into the keyhole of the door, and a very satisfying click is heard. She wiggles the doorknob for certainty and courage, and the door is steadfast in its refusal to open; however, Palanquin is not satisfied: she takes a chair and wedges its top under the doorknob, then takes a small table, and shoves it before the door. “There!” she finally breathes. “There – that ought to do it! That’ll keep ‘em away!”
Quietly, in the broom closet beside their room, Ayn Brookenford sleeps.
{DAY 3}
Overall History: In the railroad business, a "slug" is a dependent. It hasn't a prime mover, a will; rather, it is towed along by its "mother", is overshadowed by her, and trundles along briskly behind her, acknowledging how necessary she was, yielding to her completely.
"Lev" is the child of two languages, both of which have been long been festering in their graves by now. One of these languages is called "Russian", which was born in the filth of frost and communism and the fumes of vodka, but died when its mother country melted - or flooded - hard to tell, really. Lev, in melted Russian, is translated in Panemian/Newer English as "lion".
The second definition of "Lev" is one that comes from sands and heat and rabbis. The word has had its tail axed off; however, if you search hard enough for it, get yourself some glue, and reapply the hapless tail to its body, a truly worthy name is shaped from the concoction: "Levi" - which means "heart".
Now then - put it all together in a bowl, and apply a twirling spoon, and then mouth what comes out of it. Rub it on your lips and taste it; swirl it with your tongue, and consider the taste that blossoms in your mouth. Is it a gilded taste? A heavy taste? A strong taste? Does it empower you? Does it intimidate you? Is it worthy of being a prayer? Would you be worthy enough to be branded by it? Is it worthy if being your spine; the motor that moves your legs, makes you think, banks your breath?
Turn your face from the screen, and think about it - truly think about it.
Now turn around.
Now let me introduce you to someone.
Slug Lev had been conceived within the womb to become an aristocrat. Gold and silver and decadency ran in his blood, you see: long ago, before Panem, the Lev family was sprawled all across the United States of America, a royal family hiding under the votes of democracy. They moved regally, and they did no fear their silken regalia that they displayed prominently; their faces had been cold, but beautiful, like sixteenth century portraits. Their wealth and throne had been founded upon capitalism and transportation: they owned railroads upon railroads that were like steel veins stretching all throughout the country, their vehicles were the blood that pumped through them - the blood that kept the country moving, living, breathing.
The wars bled the country, however. Recession after recession; depression after depression - the aftermaths of crooked inflation after crooked inflation after taxation after taxation. People became poor; people become angry when they're poor. One mustn't be surprised that another civil war broke out - the oddest civil war ever, for to this day, no one can figure out who fought who, only that the Americans had set themselves upon each other. The veins of Lev Transcontinental were opened up and torn from the body; the murderers ranged from people who blamed the Lev family (or, at least, the ancestors that would lead up to the Lev family) for their poverty or men who split the veins open with military strategy in mind. Either way, the veins were open; the blood spilled out, as did the money of the Lev family - so did their legacy.
One small trinket survived the onslaught, thanks to a pair of crafty, aristocratic hands. How horribly unbeknownst to that particular ancestor how famous that trinket - that belt - would become; indeed, when he had wrapped his fingers round the belt's loop, he had believed that he was saving a piece of history, not of the future - and how wrong he was.
Ages past. Bygones by bygones by bygones. Panem was erected during this time; a revolution was fought and lost; annual mass murders became quite popular. During the latter era time, the blued blood of the Lev clan became mixed and muddled, till it became quite red, and quite middle-class: but the belt remained untarnished, and was guarded by every member of the family as if it were a holy object. One of these members was named "Slug", who would wear that sacred belt into his moment of triumph, if one dares to call it that.
Slug's creation could be described in terms of dominoes, as can any man's birth, life, and death. Jalopy Lev met Charabanc Ousier at a bakery that Charabanc had been employed at as a salesgirl; Jalopy appreciated said bakery, and commended its owner for his deft wisdom for price ranges and vigor for quality, and thus he became a regular; eventually, after several meetings, Jalopy and Charabanc became acquaintances, then friends, then romantic acquaintances. A marriage union came to be; a bun was warmed in the oven; and out popped a new Lev, one they named "Slug", in recognition of Jalopy's fondness for trains, as well as his union to them (for he repaired trains that had broken down, you see).
The infant was healthy, if not small. He grew, and was very happy in his childhood - not necessarily because of a pair of very fond parents (though one would be very accurate to describe Jalopy and Charabanc as such), or of a superior wealth status, but simply because he was. Slug was born a nice fellow, as several people are, and he was also born a very happy fellow, which several people aren't, unfortunately. Euphoria simply flowed through his veins - not to say at all that he was exceptionally hyper (when compared to other very young children), or slightly crazed, for Slug was simply cheery. He failed to see any reason to be otherwise; yes, he pouted when he was punished, and he glared when he was angered, but what made him exceptional, was that he didn't let the negative emotions claw their way into him. This fortunate trait followed him all throughout his childhood, through school, through life, through reaping, through prep week, through Games.
Jalopy Lev was Slug's paradox, in this way. Jalopy Lev was the sort of person who drank from a glass when it was half empty; his mouth was a cavern of grumbles, of scoffs, of profanities. When Jalopy looked at an eloquent vase, he saw merely a formation of matter taking up space; he saw no intricacy, no artistry, no greatness; if it was to break, then there was no need to frown over the pieces. When Jalopy saw human, he saw not a being of immense beauty, not because it truly was beautiful, but simply because it moved and breathed and thought and created - rather, he saw Satan, because he had seen the Devil's handiwork when the Peacekeepers had attacked District 6 during the Dark Days. District 6 had not been a fortunate place at the time, you see; indeed, if one wishes to put it into a slightly bold, historical perspective, one might describe it as Panem's self-made version of Nanking.
Directly prior to the invasion of District Six, Jalopy and Charabanc had just become newly weds, and the days of their honeymoon would be marked by Charabanc's place of work being demolished by an airplane's bomb, the trade routes between the districts that had filled Six's many bellies being upturned and ruined, and a mass of Peacekeepers that marched about the walls of the district, so clustered together and their uniforms so white that they looked like a giant cloud that had come down from the sky and now floated close to the ground. The cloud would burn down the walls and the soldiers that had guarded it five days after they had arrived; many of the fiery tongues would stretch outward and gut and blacken several other buildings that had dared to reside so close to the wall. After the fire came the Peacekeepers; they leapt over shattered walls and tattered bodies; they shot down civilians because they were there; those who weren't shot wished they had been later. Jalopy was not blind to these atrocities, unlike his wife, who would walk through the carnage as if she strode through an empty hallway. The atrocities became worms that burrowed into Jalopy's skin, and he became riddled by them, and he permitted this. Charabanc did her best to coax the worms out, but the parasites insisted, and their host refused to listen. The world was easy; humanity was evil; hope could only be manifested in the forms of his wife and, eventually, his son - but even hope in the latter would crumble away eventually.
Charabanc, on the other hand, paid little attention to public atrocities, but she noticed several private tragedies. Mrs. Lev was, in a sense, a selfish person, in that she failed to acknowledge the hardships of those whose names she never heard of, and whose faces she had never seen. For example, if one was to tell her that District Seven's trees had all been burned into ashes by a horrific wildfire, and now the district's economy was on the verge of permanent ruin, Charabanc would look at the person who had reported this infamous tragedy to her, and merely blink, and then return to what she was doing. However, if one was to tell her that - for example - her mother had passed on, Charabanc would have felt a most terrible sense of hysteria, and weep for weeks. That was the sort of person she was, and, throughout the Dark Ages and the Siege of District Six, that was what protected her mentality.
Slug Lev was neither of his parents - though, if one truly wished to compare parent with child, one may find it easier to compare Charabanc with Slug, in the sense that it was difficult for either to become psychologically rattled. However, as I have told you, Slug failed to hate or to cry because he was too happy to do such things. He simply couldn't let negative emotions eat him alive; nip at him a little at some points, of course, but to be devoured by them - it was simply not possible, surely! Plus, unlike his father, Slug loved the world, and he loved humanity. He had always loved other people - that was simply his way; however, as he matured, he began to recognize why he loved his race so. Indeed, the acknowledgements and musings rather opened up a philosophical door for him, in that - along with wondering why he loved people - he began to wonder about other things, such as why people hated other people and if that was moral or immoral; he also wondered about morality and its necessity, and he considered life and what he was meant to do in it. Indeed, one might say that Slug was quite the thinker - which was not surprising at all, for the boy wished to become an engineer at a very early age (when he was five years old, in fact!). Not a train engineer specifically, but an engineer in general: one who could design and redesign and invent and build the world's motors.
The love for engineering was birthed when his father took him to work one day. Jalopy presented his curious little son with an engine whose wheels had stopped working, and before Jalopy began to repair it, he spent at least an hour showing Slug this piece and that piece, how this works and that works. Though other children would have tuned out after a few minutes, Slug found it impossible not to be interested by what Jalopy showed him, though, admittedly, he found it hard to understand a few things. But he came to understand as the years went by and his budding mind sprang in growth, and as his father (and eventually his mother, also, when she was employed to provide fuel for stopping trains) continued to bring his son to work, a fascination with mechanical objects was manifested (or perhaps it had always rather been there, sown into Slug's DNA), and a want to create and power fueled Slug's scholastic endeavors during his youth.
This desire was Slug's only romantic endeavor; he had never had a crush that was human, and he had never had a girlfriend that he could feel and speak to. His love were the trains and the machines, as well as his future, for he knew it was to be a good one. Even in his adulthood, when he took a fancy to Capitol women, his heart's main priority was technology and the future - both his own, as well as the world's.
When Slug was twelve, he had no nightmares, he did not cry, he did not shudder when he entered the district plaza, nor did he even wince when the Peacekeeper there pricked his finger.
I mention this because it's such a common occurrence for children of twelve years in Panem to feel these intense emotions, and experience this horrific strain. Slug, on the other hand, did not worry one bit, for he knew that he would not be called this year, that year, or the next; he already had future planned and readied, and the Hunger Games was entirely uninvolved with his plans. Thus, Slug felt no need to experience angst - though his parents certainly did, a fact that bugs Slug to this day. It was absolutely horrific, you know, watching his parents drift around him as he happily ate breakfast, noticing the red streaks that banded his mother's face and the way his father looked at him as if all hope was lost. That was what tortured Slug that day - the reaping could go to Hell! He just wanted his gosh darn parents to stop being so...so...melancholic. Because melancholy puts such a stopper on life, you know? Life - which is marked by joy and triumph - is shut down by such sadness as the one his parents had experienced, and it's absolutely grueling to watch the ones you love have their lives temporarily paused by such cadaverous grief, you know.
But Slug knew better, as he would for the next three years of his life. He knew that worrying was pointless; he knew that the possibility of his name being pulled out of that bowl was smaller than he was. Thus, he freed himself from all worry, in that shrugging fashion of optimists, and chastised his parents with "You sees!" and "I told you sos!" But no matter how often Slug would chant these little, smiling, happy quips, his parents never dared to smile once during reaping days.
His parents were enigmas to him, in those days; he never could fathom how they managed to survive under the weight of pessimistic oppression they put themselves through - especially his father. Jalopy Lev was the antithesis of all happiness, of every ideal that Slug possessed. Indeed, even when reaping day was over and through, Jalopy refused to grin, except on very special occasions. How could anyone live like that? Slug often thought, usually after his father had completed a tirade about society.
When Slug was ten, one of the older children in his school had taken her own life. The news of the self-murder was like a wildfire, burning into the ears of every parent, of every student; the tongues contained several details, all of which were snippets of thoughts from that tormented soul, only the ones focusing on politics being suppressed from the ears of the school. As it turned out, most of her ideals had been consumed by this bizarre hatred of existence, this hatred of herself, this hatred of others; and, soon, it became evident why she brought the knife to herself.
By matter of misfortune, Slug's little ears snatched these details, and, for the first time in his life, he knew a desire to flee from the world. For not only had the recorded ideals of the suicide frightened his young, cheery senses, but also because of the way the ideals reminded him of his father, and how often he would grumble about others - and, sometimes, himself. And, ever since the news of that suicide had splattered Slug's mind like a bloodstain, a shudder would pass through Slug's body whenever his father screeched, "I just wish that they would all die! Every single one of them!"
During times of sober reflection, Slug would ask Jalopy about his cynicism; he would inquire as to how he could stand it, being so pessimistic, and what made him last through the day. All of which were personal questions - the sort that Jalopy Lev almost never answered, unless they were asked by his wife. But, one day, when Slug was fourteen and he had asked Jalopy how he managed with his hatred of life and humanity, Jalopy turned his face towards his son with a face as tense and grim as a tombstone. He had paused, his eyes thoughtful but his mouth drawn up in a tight line of concern, and Slug was right to assume that his father was evaluating something - whether it was himself, his son, or his answer, Slug knew not, but he figured that it was one of those three. Finally, Jalopy turned, and murmured: "Because I'm a Lev."
Slug blinked, and his head tilted. "So am I. What about it?" (A typical, fourteen-year-old sort of question.)
Jalopy furrowed his brow, and his head swung around. "Don't you know then, squirt?" he snorted, a touch of condescension making his voice rather imperious. "Levs are the toughest sort of people there are; they can endure anything. Take our ancestors, for example; it is a vaguely noted fact that we were once the richest family in all the land, until shit went down. And I should know, too!" He nodded his head in a self-assured sort of fashion.
Though the tale of the Lev's ancestors ruin had surrounded Slug since the day he was born, hearing it again - and in the voice of his father, who had always told the tale with such a relish of pride, even though the story itself had grown quite vague over the years and the facts having been obscured (a detail that most pessimists would have regarded immediately and then would have thrown the tale in the trash as promptly as possible) - made Slug's face beam into a grin, and he could not help but permit a cheer trumpet from his throat.
If Jalopy had been like any other man, he would have smiled; but such was not the case for him - instead, his face became rigid again, its previous imperiousness now being shed, and he looked up, away from his son, and he rumbled: "Our name means 'lion-heart'. Did you know that?"
Slug had not, and this sudden enlightenment on the origin of his surname made Slug blink, and he was muted by a strange solemnity that comes with a bizarre revelation. One of those revelations that one stores within his heart, though he knows not why; one of those that makes him feel special, though he doesn't understand it; one of those that is like the meaning to life, in its obscurity and in its profound hope or dismay, depending on the perspective. And, so, in acknowledgement to this strange revelation, Slug took up this news and stored it within his mind and heart. He would only take it out on certain occasions and inspect it, let it warm him if he was cold. For he knew that it was important, though he didn't know why - the only reason that he decided this was because of this vague ability that idealists and romanticists share to make something so obscure so wonderful.
*
He knew the girl. She wasn't his friend or anything...No, no she was his friend - in a way...
She just seemed so...so...not there...
Her name was Palanquin Symmetry. The district and the world stood in a plaza of industrial grey coated in blood red balloons and fascist arrogance. A sleepy escort tottered and bumped around and yawned, and somehow, Slug felt sorry for him. He felt sorry for both of them - all who stood on that stage. Palanquin, the escort, the mayor, the other district officials...they all simply seemed...not there...
He was fifteen, and the shortest District 6 secondary student on record. Little had changed his cheery demeanor, since his chat with his father about the Lev lineage. Except he was softer now - not in cheeriness, but merely in his perception of his father. The way his father had spoke, of how his blood gave him courage through the rants and the depression - it had made Slug wonder. Wonder about how other people made through life, and wonder about his own - if, perhaps, he wasn't taking his existence seriously enough. Though, upon further thought, he didn't necessarily feel such was the case - how serious can one truly be about life and survive, really?
The escort tottered and dimpled up to the boys bowl. A slip of paper was lifted like a sagging flag in the air. The other boys shifted and fidgeted around Slug; a great murmuring ensued, like a hundred prayers being fired off at once. Slug stood his ground; his mouth was set. A shaky inhale whimpered deeply into his nose. He didn't bother to take life seriously, or whimper to himself, "It's me. It's me." He only thought: "I hope the boy looks like he's there."
It was like his last breath. For when the projected yawn billowed forth, a mental faint, almost a stroke of the mind, simply snapped his consciousness. There was a vague sense of cheating about it all.
His mind was darkness - all he could perceive was darkness. He didn't know how long he was in this numbed darkness
[/div]
Victor of the 15th Hunger Games
HELL YES.
Taking Over This Town, They Should Worry;
But These Problems Aside, I Think I've Taught You Well...
Full Name: Slug Felix Lev Junior
Nickname: Slugarific, Slugtastic, Sluggy, Slugman, My Main Slug, Lion-heart (the only nickname that I didn't make up on the spot, lol).
Birthday: July Eleventh
Age: 28...? (If anyone feels that Felix looks older or younger to y'all, please tell me, and I'll make the necessary adjustments. Cause...I have difficulties with guessing the ages of animated characters...Personally, I was going to go with something a tad younger, but then I got nervous and went with twenty-eight. x( )
Sexual Orientation: Straight
Location: District 6 (goes to the Capitol for prep week)
Hunger Games Won: Fifteenth Hunger Games
Nickname: Slugarific, Slugtastic, Sluggy, Slugman, My Main Slug, Lion-heart (the only nickname that I didn't make up on the spot, lol).
Birthday: July Eleventh
Age: 28...? (If anyone feels that Felix looks older or younger to y'all, please tell me, and I'll make the necessary adjustments. Cause...I have difficulties with guessing the ages of animated characters...Personally, I was going to go with something a tad younger, but then I got nervous and went with twenty-eight. x( )
Sexual Orientation: Straight
Location: District 6 (goes to the Capitol for prep week)
Hunger Games Won: Fifteenth Hunger Games
His Crown Lit Up the Way as We Moved Slowly,
Past the Wondering Eyes that were Left Behind...
If you give me one sentenced answers for any of these I will deny it faster than you can say Happy Hunger Games, the only one where it is acceptable is for weapon of choice and Face Claim, everything else 3-4 sentence minimum
If you give me one sentenced answers for any of these I will deny it faster than you can say Happy Hunger Games, the only one where it is acceptable is for weapon of choice and Face Claim, everything else 3-4 sentence minimum
Hair Color Style and Length: Crowned atop Slug’s scalp is a straight, flat hat of hair that is a very nice, lightish brown color. He combs it meticulously, clawing at any tangles or spikes or whatever inconsistencies until it is nice and smooth and flat on his head. His bangs are long and lie relatively close to his eyebrows, and swoops across his forehead in a rather boyish style, thus adding a cheerful, youthful air to his the top of his face.) He doesn't let it grow long, for that would simply be silly, and he doesn't trust long hair one bit, so he keeps it close as close to his scalp as possible without completely shaving it off (the stylists would not approve if he did such a thing); unfortunately, his hair has a natural fluffiness that makes it rise very quickly from his scalp, and though it does not grow so outward that it becomes particularly long, it does extend over the shortness margin Slug has laid out for it. Mind you, the "natural fluffiness" does not make his hair wild or eccentric to look at (it's actually quite smooth, if you happen to have the fortune of petting it), it simply makes it soft and slightly thick.
Note: NEVER write about a character's hairstyle if said character's FC is mostly seen wearing a hat of some sort. IT. IS NOT. FUN.
Note: NEVER write about a character's hairstyle if said character's FC is mostly seen wearing a hat of some sort. IT. IS NOT. FUN.
Eye Color: Slug's irises truly do have a very nice color to it: they are a pair of very clear, but also very soft, sky blue rings that encircle his pupils. His eyes are not beady; in fact, they are rather wide, stretched open much like a child's, and makes his face seem soft and youthful, with very few hints of any emotional hindrances enacted by the Games he participated in. There is a very strange air to Slug's peepers, one that - in the brightness of his light blue eyes and the wideness of the sockets in general - has made it look like there is almost a smile in his eyes, which is often believed to be rather perpetual, though it's been proven many times over that such is not the case. These smiling eyes of his, when looked upon, are often treated like an unspoken welcome; rather, a silent treaty of friendship and peace between Slug and the fellow (or fellows) he is currently looking on. This friendliness is enhanced by the brightness of his eyes ( a light that is so rarely seen in victors); and this brightness - in the present, anyway - has not dimmed often, but when it does, a very strange, very uneasy look comes to Slug's eyes, a look that makes them appear very glazed over, and as for the peepers' owner - particularly cadaverous. However, fortunately, in recent years, this has not been seen often on Slug, though there was a period where it was, unfortunately, very common.
Body Type and Height: Slug’s body is slim and spry, with plenty of optimistic energy packed into the muscles and between the bones. In many ways, his figure has not changed much since he was a tribute: it is still slender and small, and still bears the smoothness and width of a young boy’s form, and has very few inconsistencies and awkward, protuberating things. As mentioned before, Slug’s body is very close to the ground, and there are very few occasions where he is able to look into the eyes of a female peer without tilting his head back. However, despite his small stature, he is a very wiry, sturdy little fellow, capable of lifting heavy objects with surprising ease; and, because of this mixture of strength and the aforementioned energy, his little form is capable of a very great, athletic endurance.
Clothing Style: Unlike most males, Slug does have a preference when it comes to the things he wears: often, on days when a formal engagement does not beckon him, and he is in his quiet home in District 6 with the young Hans, his clothes are common and lack very little emphasis on appearance. They are casual in every sense of the term, from the thin fabric that bends easily with his every movement to the very pattern and style of the clothing. These are his “work clothes”; the ones that he does not fear getting oil or anything unwanted on them, whilst he handles his little trains or any other small, mechanical objects. However, his clothing style becomes very paradoxical when the call for formality rings, usually when he’s at the Capitol, his clothes suddenly become very sharp and elegant, with suits and ties and dress shoes almost always near at hand. Slug likes to look as good as he can in front of the sponsors (or during one of the few moments that he finds himself in front of a camera once again) – especially when the sponsors are of the female population and happen to be in rather elegant apparel themselves.
Marks: The majority of his markings are on his hands and fingers: various calluses and cuts that have been obtained from hours in his little work shop, building his little models. He does have a few scars here and there from his time in the Hunger Games, though the majority of those lacerations have been rubbed into invisibility by the Capitol prior to his deportation from the arena. One is found is found in his leg that hindered him greatly during the Games, but now has managed to heal in such a way that his ability to walk properly is only slightly offset by a hardly noticeable limp; there is another long, thin, corporal trench that curves around his sides, where a curved metal rod thrust the flesh upward, revealing the tissue and blood that lay beneath. Fortunately, both of these marks have the capability of being easily hidden by their owner, so Slug does not have to fret over them often; though, in the cases where he cannot cover them up, such as when he is showering or dressing, he does make good not to glance at them as much as possible.
Weapon of Choice: A toaster that was painted goldbet you were expecting a hammer, weren't yah?. (HE'S JUST THAT COOL.)
Weapon of Choice: A toaster that was painted gold
Face Claim: FIX-IT FELIX JUNIOR!!!! <33333333
Weaknesses:
Though Far Away, Though Far Away, Though Far Away,
We're Still The Same! We're Still The Same! We're Still the Same!
We're Still The Same! We're Still The Same! We're Still the Same!
Likes:
- ENGINEERING IS FUN!
- SCIENCE IS FUN!
- Being the center of attention is pretty fun, too! (If not a tad nerve-racking.)
- Hans the Kitten
- His mother
- Optimism
- Kids.
- TRAINS ARE FUN!
- Model trains. <3 (Though not as cool as the real thing.)
- Working with his hands.
- Enterprise in people.
- Capitolite technology.
- Politeness/being polite.
- Iced sweet tea.
THE SOUTH WILL RISE AGAIN!- Women that look good in ball-gowns.
- Classy social engagements (a luxury that he has only recently discovered and that his title as a well-respected Hunger Games victor has earned him - one of the title's few perks, as he knows it as)
- Humanity
- MATH IS FUN!
- Capitolite culture intrigues him, and he rather finds the Capitolite stereotype slightly endearing (they remind him of children).
- Comedy!
Dislikes:
- DRUGS ARE FOR THUGS!
- Alcohol.
- The other victors' collective moodiness.
- The Hunger Games, which he is certain shall be abolished soon - perhaps not in his lifetime, but certainly in the next generation's.
- Pessimists and cynics.
- When Hans plays with his miniature trains.
- His father constantly reminding him that he probably won't become an engineer.
- His bashfulness.
- Dramas (in entertainment)
- Dogs.
- Scissors (bad memories)
- Toasters (he has nightmares of them leaping up and attaching themselves to his face)
- (Speaking of which...) Nightmares are gross!
- Violence.
- Women and girls who don't dress modestly (they make him bashful).
Strengths:
- Smart
- Pleasant to be around.
- Polite
- Kinda funny.
- Has proven himself quite handy with flail-like objects.
- Happy-go-lucky
- Optimist
- Appreciates life.
- Accepts faults easily enough, and will try to contend with them.
- Good with his hands
- Fairly laid back, most of the time.
- Gentle with his tributes.
- Quite brave.
- Learned first aid during prep week.
- Admirable celerity.
- Can be quite light on his feet.
- Gentlemanly and chivalrous.
Weaknesses:
- He's a midget
- Becomes bashful around people he has yet to have made the acquaintance of.
- Isn't very tolerant of other people's differing opinions, and is more than willing to start a passionate debate between himself and the dissenter.
- He has a phobia of certain household appliances and objects (such as scissors and toasters and tall lamps, all of which are items he has banned from his house).
- A tad too idealistic for his own good.
- He's a sucker for a pretty young lady.
- He finds it hard to truly relate with the other victors, now that he's separated himself adequately enough from some of his emotional scars (or, at least, is endeavoring to), so - though he tries! - Slug's proven not to be the greatest therapist around them, and will mostly resort to silent pats on the back or giving their fingers a gentle, reassuring squeeze (if they're female).
- He gets lonely too easily, so he's rather reliant on Hans, whom he misses very painfully when he's at the Capitol.
- Slug still has some mild prejudices against certain districts whose tributes attempted to kill him during the Games.
- He's a bit of a lady's man - but in a gentlemanly sort of way, of course; and most of his relationships are mutually coquettish, so there's no real pain felt in either parties when the evening-long romance comes to an end.
Fears:
- Going back to the Games
- The nightmares will come true
- Toasters
- Scissors
- Losing Hans
- Despair
Talent: Train models! :DDDDDD
Howling Ghosts They Reappear,
In the Mountains that are Stacked with Fear...
Mother: Charabanc Lev
Father: Jalopy Lev
Siblings: None
Other Significant: None.
Pets: He has adopted a little kitten named Hans to keep him company in his lonely Victor's Village.
District Partner: Palanquin Symmetry
Games Overview: (Just a warning: the way I've written it, it kinda feels like I'm kinda like God...I mean, in the sense that I'm writing in present tense, but I kinda know what's gonna happen in the future (at least, as far as various audience reactions and media responses go), so I guess that rather makes me omniscient...I dunno...I kinda like doing it that way, so I don't think I'll change it, unless I get a little too overbearing with it. :3 )
~{REAPING}~
Initially, the first two reapings are not but replays of what often transpires in the career districts. The escort cries out the names of the randomly chosen, and as the selected take their places on the stage, an eighteen-year-old career screams with such ferocity that one would have thought it is a battle-cry, “I volunteer!” The chosen tributes promptly relinquish their position to their respective usurper, who both proudly bound up to the stage with the lightest of step, and smirks at the crowd with such devilish delight that one might believe they are planning to slay everyone in the district. However, it is very common to see such hateful confidence in volunteered tributes from the districts of One and Two, and so no one – inside the district or otherwise – pays much notice to this.
Oddly enough, it isn’t till the reaping of little District 3 (of all places!) that some intrigue and originality is scraped from the barrel’s bottom. When the cameras flicker and become fixated on District Three’s square, the majority of those who watch – by instinct – reckon that the tributes will be as soft and weak as their predecessors have been; for there is some strange quirk about District Three, where everyone – including themselves – knows that their majority are all very smart and clever, and yet the District 3 residents seem to also own this strange bashfulness, as if this knowledge of their mental power strikes within them some strange fear of themselves that makes them weak and unconfident in themselves, and often turns out to be the reason behind their tributes’ downfall in the Games.
With a flourish of her hand, the graceful and airy escort of District 3 pulls free from the mass of paper the chosen slip, and unfolds it. “Pi-i-p Pippinson!” she cries, in her languid, song-like voice, which is as clear and soft and metallic as wind-chimes as they clatter and ding in a soft breeze. There is a hush, in which the cameras scan the area for the new recruit; they don’t have to search long, however: by her own accord, without the metaphysical nudging of a camera’s sight or the beckoning of the escort or the force of a Peacekeeper, Pip Pippinson steps into the pathway that bifurcates the girls from the boys, and makes her way up to the stage, her step hard and firm, as if she is marching rather than striding, and her slender body erect and stiff, and her head held high and confident. The camera locks onto her face the moment she’s free of the cluster of sixteen-year-old girls, noting how she looks like any other District 3 resident, with her face sharp and her skin ashen, and her braided hair being the color of coal, like the majority of girls in her district. However, immediately, the audience sees the difference between her and those who have come before her: there is a particular firmness to her mouth and tightness in her lips that shapes it into a very unsatisfied scowl, as if everything she has ever seen was poorly crafted or faulty in some way, but there is also a hawkishness in her eye that suggests that she is the sort of person who not only sees what is wrong, but also immediately barks out orders to make it right.
Once Pip steps beside her new escort, the delicate Capitolite draws out from the other bowl of paper slips, and reads in a declarative, but beautiful voice: “Di-i-i-igit McGurt!” With the same promptness of his district partner, a fourteen-year-old fellow strides up to his, his golden hair twisting and contorting around itself in a flurry of curls. His wiry body moves with the grace and pride of a cat, and there is calmness in his freckled face and clear blue eyes, as if he already has a strategy laid out, one that is full-proof, one that shall have him sent home in a blink of an eye. In many ways, he is like his district partner: the confidence, the command, the knowledge and proud acceptance of what he is, what is happening, and what he shall surely become, depending on how hard he tries; both of them are congenital leaders, in their assuredness and their strength. But there is one difference between the two: Pip has an air of demand around her, one that screams for respect, one that makes her look as strong and willing to commit cruelty much like a despot, but – like most despots – the respect is undeserved, for she demands it with her eyes; for young Digit McGurt, however, the respect comes naturally.
The screen flickers and blackens, and then flickers into color again; we are transported to a new district square: we are watching the reaping of District Four.
“Ayn Brookenford!” the District 4 escort declares. Instantaneously, as if she has just been cued rather than randomly selected, Ayn proceeds from her place in the sixteen-year-old female section, and approaches the stage. She is a little like the District 3 tributes, in some ways, in the strength of character that deepens and brightens her grass-colored eyes. She is a very husky, heavy-set girl; her body is athletic and bears a very slight masculine resemblance, and her appendages look quite firm and seem braced, as if she is already in the arena, before all those enemies. She moves with a great confidence, just as Pip and Digit had, but hers is a freer and looser sort, a sort that seems to laugh in mockery at all around her whilst she moves: the sort that is often accustomed to the confidence of the individual, one who needs not lead nor wants to lead, for she only requires herself to live, to exist. The camera’s gaze first lands upon her profile, one that is pretty and fair, and has a delicateness that is very incongruent to her husky figure, one that is more often imagined on princesses; however, as she takes her place on stage and she turns her face forward, towards the camera, any males who have been entranced into consideration of admiration by her airy profile immediately abandon the thought: her face is far more hawkish than Pip’s, one that is not demanding, but challenging and mocking, silently daring you to attempt to ascend into a higher level of being through means you just can’t physically or mentally attempt, and one that will surely cackle at you whilst you urgently deny her cruel order or fail utterly in the dare.
“Any volunteers?” the escort asks. There is a small pause, while the camera takes a gander at the crowd for a moment, and then flickers back onto Ayn as she stares down at her district, her mouth twitching, as if she is fighting back a smirk, and there is a glint of disdainful mockery in her eyes. For none dare to approach.
The supposed boy tribute is called up, and then a volunteer soon proffers and replaces him; when the escort asks them to shake hands, the new district partner cordially offers it to Ayn. All she does is wrinkle her nose at him.
In the blink of an eye, the audience of the reaping recaps finds themselves hovering over District Five, where the only twelve-year-old for the Games is reaped: Solana Reed, a thin, pretty little thing with ginger hair that drapes over her shoulders like reddish brown curtains. She stands with her tiny body stiff and her icy eyes are currently glazed over and blank from the shock of being called as a tribute. Her district partner, Mooney Crackers, is called, and up he comes; he is a gangly, tall boy whose lanky form promptly bends over when his name is declared, as if a ton of lead has been set upon his shoulders, and – in the same subdued manner - he trudges to stand beside little Solana.
And so, we are whisked to District Six. The escort moves about the stage in a tottering fashion, staggering and rocking about, his legs limp and practically useless beneath his weight. He totters up to the girls’ bowl, and lifts his arm upward; his forearm dangles listlessly in the air, and he lowers it gingerly into the bowl, and he moves his hand about by shifting his elbow around, as if there are no bones in his wrist. In a moment’s time, he lifts his hand out from the bowl, and flourishes it for a moment, to show the camera the paper slip that he holds between his fingers. He lowers it then, and pries it open; his voice is sleepy and crackly as he reads: “Palanquin Symmetry.”
The only thing that moves is the camera, as it swoops around in the air, searching for a flicker of life, of acknowledgement; nothing human in the square dares to move, maybe even to breathe. The escort sways from one side to the other; his eyes squint as his gaze sweeps over the crowd of district residents, but finding nothing but skin-clad statues, he calls out again, with a quavering hint of uncertainty: “Palanquin Symmetry?” He pauses; repetition does nothing to break the collective immobility; he shifts from one foot to the other, whilst his small mouth contorts slowly in uncertainty, and he asks the microphone: “Is she not here?”
Finally, there is a shift in the stillness; a broad-shouldered, firmly built girl of eighteen fidgets and wiggles, as a sleeping fellow might stir as he is drawn into awakening, and then scoots out of the crowd of peers, and steps into the bifurcating path. Her face is very homely, with her broad, flat nose and large, indelicate mouth, and still gray eyes and her scraggly mop of blond hair whose thin bangs fall lazily into her eyes. Like Mooney Crackers of District Five, her shoulders are also bent forward, but she wears the position with a more comfortable air than Mooney did, as if they are perpetually hunched and her bones are very much used to being held in this way. She trudges up to the stage with her fat mouth set into a sagging frown, and her glassy eyes showing a very slight glimmer of stunned melancholy.
Once Palanquin takes her place on stage, the escort totters and rocks and sways over to the boy’s bowl, and sticks his hand into it in the same way he had when he reaped Palanquin. He lifts it up lazily, and lifts it up for the camera to see in a slothy, tired fashion, as if some great weariness has made him forget how important this day is to the nation of Panem. His thumbs pull it open in the same manner, the joints moving in a mechanical fashion, as if only instinct is driving his body into a state of motion; his drooping eyelids press together once in a slow, sloth-like blink, and his voice becomes broad and stupid as he reads, becoming more like a yawn than a declaration: “SluuuuuuuUUUUUUUUUUUuug…Leev…”
As if in a decisive agreement that there will no longer be any collective bouts of immobility, all of the boys begin to shift and to turn and to move, looking around themselves, trying to see who the chosen one is. From what one can see, only an individual figure dares not to move, and, indeed, remains so stiff that one might believe a statue has been set there, amongst all those movers. Then, gradually, as if some wandering spirit is stepping into that lone statue and is taking possession of it, he begins to move, weaving around the other boys, who soon notice him, and as one body turn to watch him leave their ranks. He extends a thin, diminutive leg into the path, and lowers his foot onto the dirt; it then seems to rather drag his body out of the collective, as if that particular leg is the only thing capable of movement, while the rest of his body is now only deadweight – a little less than a hundred pounds of useless meat and bones. It takes a few heartbeats, but after a spell, he is free from the collective; he pauses for a moment, his legs spread apart, and looks about him with the quick urgency of a prey animal as it sniffs about for the scent of a predator. He turns his head around again, towards the stage, towards the camera; his lower jaw is hanging open, and his flanks heave with every gasp of air; his face has paled, and his eyes are as wide as saucers, and his fists have begun to tremble, as if only now has it occurred to him what he is in, what he is facing.
It’s evident to the audience that fright has enthralled him; he can’t move – at least, he isn’t moving. However, it is not this panic that the audience, at this time, cares about, for it is per the norm for new tributes to know a paralyzing fear during their reaping. Rather, it is his height that they notice, and it will be his height that the magazines in the Capitol will be joking and raving about in their articles during prep week. For he is probably one of the shortest tributes that decade of Hunger Games has ever seen and will ever see (at least, for his age group, anyway); by judgment of recollection, he is only an inch taller than little Solana Reed, the little twelve-year-old from District Five – yet, it was from the group of fifteen-year-old boys that he stepped out from! Indeed, if it had not been for the fortune of the camera being positioned at a certain angle, he might not have been noticed at all, behind the towering bodies of his peers.
Suddenly, the fear leaves Slug Lev; his body becomes erect, and his eyebrows rise high over his eyes, and he tilts his head slightly backwards, as if he is trying to peer at something in the distance. His mouth begins to contort quickly, shaping words but not uttering them, and he proceeds to the stage with his body leaning forward with a decisive air. He does not stop his silent mantra once in his walk to the stage (and it is, indeed, a mantra, for one can tell by the way his mouth moves that he is mouthing the same words over and over); it seems to be the only thing keeping his legs moving, in some ways. There is an air in the way his mouth forms the hushed words, one that is of respect and delicateness and reliance, as if he is praying; there is also a determination cocktailed in this honoring of his, one that also seems to give his mouthed mantra such a ferocity and power that it is a battle cry, also.
He marches up the stairs, and crosses over to the escort; in sudden unison, his mouth and feet stop moving, and he is perfectly still. The escort (who was facing Slug whilst he was approaching her) turns toward his microphone, and gestures with an indolent, half-hearted flick of his hands at his new wards. He manages to squeeze some energy into his voice as announces: “Alright, Panem – here they are – District Six’s new tributes: Palanquin Symmetry and Slug Lev!”
The screen flickers again, the scene magically transmogrifying to the district square at District Seven, where the male and female tributes are thereby extracted. Then, we are transferred to District Eight; the lively, flamboyant escort* bounces towards the girl’s bowl rather in the manner of songbirds when they traverses land, and with one jerk she thrusts her tie-dyed hand into the bowl and swings it back out, a piece of paper held tightly in her colorful claws. It is opened; a name is squealed into the microphone: “Dishrag Kelly!”
The majority of the audience members who are not of District 8 origin are probably all sputtering in unison at this moment, for the girl’s name is very rare and very unpopular and considered particularly silly and misfortunate to have, even amongst District 8 residents, who all know that the name exists, but have very rarely met anyone under the title of “Dishrag”. However, the tragic name compounds in hilarity once the poorly christened girl takes her place on stage, for –as it turns out – by the way of appearance and mien, Dishrag Kelly truly lives up to her name. She is more like a hyena than a human, with her flat, rising forehead, and a long, rather broad face with a sharp, jutting chin, with a thin mouth that stretches from one side of her face to the other, and her large, round ears that flare from the side of her head. She has only washed her appendages this morning, apparently, letting it be known that her skin is, naturally, of a bronze-dyed pigment; Dishrag’s hyena-like face, on the other hand, has been unfortunately overlooked and ignored by its keeper, and has a very large, black stain upon her round, yet broad nose (which currently looks more like a giant, black blemish upon her face), as if she has taken a stone of coal to it.
Below the face lies the body, the only thing that is truly attractive about it, for it is long and slender and incongruently feminine; the limbs that sprout from it, however, are long and loosely built, and the arms are longer than the legs, and this trait adds to the awkwardness of her body. She runs her lanky fingers through her uncombed, wild, jutting hair of black-speckled brown in jerks, yanking her hand downward and then upward, whilst her fingernails scrape along the skin of her skull. Then, she flings her hand down, and thrusts her chin outward; a very long, thin smile crawls upon her face, her slender lips creeping beneath her teeth, uncovering them. The corners of her mouth push the flesh of her cheeks upward, into one pile of flesh that seems to make her eyes curve upward and become arch-shaped. It is an unruly, ugly grin, one that holds such devilishness and naughtiness that, instantaneously, she becomes a hated character in the Games.
The vibrant escort’s mouth yanks into what is clearly meant as an attempt at a cordial smile of welcome; Dishrag does not notice it – the seventeen-year-old hyena-child just keeps grinning at the crowd, her distasteful smile still. The escort fidgets, and the effort at friendship is preempted by a slightly frightened, almost distraught grimace. However, once she turns her back on her new female ward, her happy-go-lucky attitude seems to take over once more, forcing her grimace into a youthful, cheery grin, and she skips up to the boy’s bowl, and declares District Eight’s male tribute, Cashmere O’Riley, a blanche boy of thirteen (who – as some shall comment later – is noticeably taller than the District 6 male tribute). The camera flicks from the approaching Cashmere to the face of Dishrag, for an interesting change has come over Dishrag now, in the way her swarthy eyes now gleam, one that adds to her hyena complexion: for, as she watches her new district partner walk up, she currently eyes him with a sadistic lust, like a starved hyena as it hastily bustles up to a festering zebra.
After the congratulatory made by the escort, the camera leaps out from District Eight, and barges into District Nine; then Ten; then Eleven; and then, finally, Twelve, which is promptly succeeded by a parade of colorful and optimistic mixing of commercials and vigorously nationalistic propaganda. No need to watch the television anymore; the reaping recaps will be stayed for the rest of the night, until morning comes. The tributes have now all boarded their trains; the arrival of the District 1 tributes – the district closest to the Capitol, and thus almost always the first to arrive, unless some special and dire event transpires – has been scheduled at noon. They won’t be in the chariots till gloaming time, and they won’t be launched till nightfall. Until then, all there is left for us to do is wait.
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*I would have loved to have put Hospes as the District 8 escort for this bio, but, alas, Hospes wasn't even thinking of becoming an escort at around this time, and thus I had to deal with one of his predecessors instead. :/ Not as fun, I hate to say.
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~{OPENING CEREMONIES}-
All across Panem, every single television that is still in workable condition flickers to life, with no human hands to reach for their respective panels and turn it on. For somewhere, squirreled away in the bowls of some government building, a man has just nudged a button that is linked to all of these television sets, all throughout this country of ours, controlling them, turning them on and setting them to whatever public network that the president has set his mandatory show on, whether it be propaganda or news of the most dire sort or some triumphant increase in agricultural products and the like; for when viewing becomes mandatory, it is, in consequence, an absolute mandatory viewing – you have no choice in the matter, and you will never, ever escape it, for there are televisions everywhere, in the homes, in the stores, in the plazas; it is inescapable and of a far higher power than yours.
Today, the absolutely mandatory viewing will be the Opening Ceremonies. Upon the screen is a white desk, and behind the desk is a pair of colorfully dressed people: the airy interviewer and the husky, square-chinned announcer of the Games, whose smile makes his face crinkle up and become almost impish; behind them stretches a screen, one that has been ornately and cleverly crafted to look more like a window, and upon the screen lies a long, gray road that stretches from the very bottom of the screen and towards what is clearly the training center, whose architecture is stately and stern at the same time. The announcer of the Hunger Games promptly draws our attention from the screen by flashing a genuine, friendly grin at us, and declaring: “Well, well, well! Here we are, folks! The Opening Ceremonies to the Fifteenth Annual Hunger Games!”
The interviewer chuckles and a small, polite, but childlike smile brightens her lovely face. “Fifteenth anniversary already,” she murmurs, as her small head bobs up and down in a methodical, thoughtful fashion. She turns her bright, smiling eyes toward the announcer, and comments: “You know, Claudio, it’s strange – it feels like the fifteenth year of the Games, and yet I can’t help but think that this ought to be the Second Hunger Games, not the Fifteenth.”
One strong, baritone laugh booms from the announcer Claudio, and his voice becomes slightly coquettish, yet also thoughtful: “Time flies fast, eh? And to think, we’re halfway towards the country’s first Quarter Quell.”
The interviewer’s eyes and mouth become round and very opened. “Already?! Goodness! Another fifteen years and…”
Claudio snickers like a naughty schoolboy. “Yup! Can you believe it?” Before she can affirm or deny his query, he whips himself around in his chair, so he can turn his head to look at the screen behind him; he only gives it a glance, before he twirls his body around again to grin a very youthful, almost boyish smile at the camera, and declares: “Here it comes, ladies and germs! The Opening Ceremonies of the Fifteenth Hunger Games – will start in…”
With no cue, no hints, the interviewer takes up the countdown with her companion almost instinctively; they declare the numbers with a great, hearty, happy vigor, one that has a vague coarseness and primitiveness to it, as if the series of numerals is actually a war chant: “Five!...Four!...Three!...Two!...ONE!”
In the blink of an eye, every television screen beholds the large, mammoth doors that bifurcates the street from the chariot launch room burst open, in a triumphant, heroic manner, as if the purpose for this night is not to honor the punishments of war, but, rather, the return of a hero of war. One can see a very small slither of the crowd proceed to leap upward and downward, their arms parallel lines that stretch over their heads, as if they are trying to hold up the sky; and, as they bounce and cheer, they become a colorful, vibrant, roiling, throbbing rainbow – a perfect backdrop for the emergence of the tributes. In a matter of seconds, the District 1 tributes are towed into the vivid eyes of the Capitol, their snow white mares moving at a brisk, yet easy pace. The children they carry ride a gilded chariot, with their district seal emblazed on its face and flanks in a glistening silver; the chariot’s passengers wear matching colors, with their particularly swanky blazers and dress shirts and bottoms (which are both equally very swanky and smooth, but are varied in terms of forms of bottoms, in accordance to the wearer’s sex) being a very bright, golden-colored thread, and their dress shoes and driving gloves and neckties and toppers (the male wears a particularly stylish fedora, while his counterpart has a hat born from 1930s nostalgia that curves closely around her cranium) are silver in appearance, and each article of clothing is sprinkled conservatively with glitter that glints like stars as the bright lights of the Capitol hit them. The glitter has also been packed – in the same restrictive manner – into their flesh, and they sparkle like a duo of vampiresin the Twilight as they flourish their glinting fingers at the crowd.
“Here it is, folks!” Claudio’s booming, bright, delighted voice is heard as the camera follows the District 1 tributes. “The initiation of the Fifteenth Hunger Games! And we are off to a shining-”
“I figured he was going to say something like that,” the interviewer’s feminine, silky voice interjects, in a very matter-of-fact, flat way.
Claudio does not skip a beat: “-start by District One’s very own Chant Singing and Sugary Freud!”
Our attention is turned from District 1 to Two as the next duo rolls into the street, wearing a uniform that is very reminiscent to the older population of a Peacekeeper uniform during the Dark Days (as an ode to District Two’s beloved savagery in combat), only quite snugger and built more for looks than for war, and the tributes wear their defanged Peacekeeper uniforms with austere pride, keeping their eyes turned straight ahead, not once flickering at their comrade or the crowd that cheers and screams for them. Afterwards come Pip Pippinson and Digit McGurt, donned in a very futuristic, and personally quite trippy outfit: they make their appearance in silvery spandex suits with neon jewelry that radiates a bright green aura around them, making their faces appear human in shape, but stereotypically Martian in color, and their silvery spandex basks in the eerie glow, becoming dyed by it, going from silver to greenish. There are also neon lights running across the top of the chariot, and also encircling the District 3 insignia that is worn proudly on either side of the chariot.
“We’re getting very lit up here!” Claudio remarks with an eager, silly chuckle. “Next up – next up…District Four! Everyone, give a big appendage for Coral Reefer and Ayn Brookenford!”
The grayish horses that are in charge of Ayn and Coral’s delivery march dutifully into the open, their lovely heads held high and proud as they ignore completely the sharp human cries; their charges are dressed with the intention of paying homage to the coral reefs, with their bodies respectively covered by a long, flowing robe with splotches and stripes and dots of vibrant, bright colors, ranging from tangerine to gold to neon pink to a deep scarlet set atop a light blue background, and respectively seated atop their heads is a crown of coral and shells. Perched atop their chariot is a fake sea anemone that would be quite convincing for people who had only seen anemones in pictures. Coral waves his arm at the crowd as if it is a flag, proudly and blatantly and with no sense of shame, and there is a knowing smirk on his face that gives it a very impish air to it. Ayn doesn’t do a thing; her eyes are glazed over, her face is still, her lips are pressed tight together, and her eyelids are sagging – it’s as if she’s completely oblivious of what is going on around her. She looks at the crowd on the right with a distant, aloof, indifferent stare, as if she is not looking at them, but rather, some conjuration of her own thoughts. She has her fingers curled about the top of the chariot, and she sets some of her weight on them; occasionally, she lets one set of fingers release their hold on the chariot and bat lightly at the fake sea anemone, as a cat might idly prod a toy with its paw.
Behind them follows Solana Reed and Mooney Crackers, who have been dressed up in tight-fitting, white clothes as a tribute to wind energy, and they are crowned with porcelain-colored beanies whose “propellers” are made to look like the wheels of a turbine, and the propellers spin in the same lackadaisical, bored manner of windmills. Next to appear is Slug Lev and Palanquin Symmetry, in overalls and conductor’s hats and handkerchiefs, all of which are made to look as if they are of metallic origin, not of fabric (which is actually not so, as one may see in the way their clothes bend and crease). When they first emerge from the launch room, their reactions are much like how they responded to their reaping; the shock shows clearly on their faces, as they stare at the crowd that is the nearest to them – but this does not appear to be a shock that emerges from fear; instead, this is a shock of unknowing, of not understanding what is before them, or how they are supposed to react to it. This shock makes them still for only a heartbeat; then, gradually, the corners of Slug’s lips drag themselves upward, and his lips begin to part, until his mouth has taken the shape of utter delight. His body begins to quiver, but this movement is not fear: it is a product of laughter, of mirth; and in one great explosion of movement, his arm flies from his shuddering flank, and he flourishes it at the crowd happily, cordially, his eyes sparkling in pure joy, as if he has discovered a fantasyland.
Suddenly, we are transported to the room where our lovely Hunger Games interviewer and her compatriot, Claudio the Announcer, have their bodies turned in their chairs, so they may watch the screen, which currently showcases the camera angle and scene that we have just been swept away from. Claudio snickers in his youthful, schoolboyish, but still somehow manly chortle, as he remarks: “He looks happy.”
“Oh!” cries the interviewer, with her arms having bent and the bottoms of her forearms pressing tightly to her sides, and her fists are now curled. “Oh, yes! Isn’t it wonderful, Claudio! All that spirit! All that energy! That – that, my dearest friend” (one of her fist suddenly shoots out as she now speaks, towards the screen, and her index fingers unfurls, becoming directed at Slug’s face) “is the epitome of the Hunger Games spirit! Oh! Oh, simply look at it!”
“I’m lookin’ at it, I’m lookin’ at it!” Claudio snickers; his thin grin stretches across his face till it practically shuts his eyes closed.
“I’m serious! I’m serious!” she cries, as she lowers her arm, and touches her cheek with her hand. “Oh, Claudio, why can’t all tributes be as spirited as that?”
We are then flicked back onto that wide, sprawling street of the Capitol, directly before the District 6 tributes, just in time to see Palanquin’s paradoxical reaction. Instead of bursting into a flurry of waving arms, she cringes back, and shrinks downward, her back and knees bending forward, as if she intends to duck down behind the façade of the chariot. Slug’s eyes dart to his peripherals and his smile diminishes only slightly when he notices his partner’s fright. He turns his face towards her, and reaches out with one hand (whilst its mate waves) and pinches the sleeve of the long, puffy sleeved shirt she had been made to wear between his thumb and forefinger, and gives it a very gentle tug. His lips are seen moving, but the crowd is too cacophonous for him to be heard by the microphones; however, those who are capable of reading lips can see that he is urging her to wave with him, with the assurance that waving is quite rather fun. Palanquin only glances at him, her glassy eyes showing the same panic as a caged wild animal, and she sinks lower, till her body is concealed by the chariot. Slug’s smile shrinks into a small frown, and his eyebrows have raised a little, and he reaches down to give her a comforting touch, presumably on the head; a disembodied sigh of sympathy is heard from the interviewer.
Next come the District 7 tributes, who have been dressed up as trees, and then the District 8 tributes, Dishrag Kelly and young Cashmere O’Riley. They are dressed in white togas that wrap around their bodies and flare into long, slim skirts at the legs, and there is a slender, short curtain of silken fabric attached, with the intentions that the tributes would be holding them up and permitting it to drape over their arms. However, since they made their appearance, only Cashmere does that; Dishrag permits hers to dangle at her side, while she scratches at her face which has been smeared by white powder, in a hurried and urgent attempt to offset her hyena-like grotesqueness. Her eyes are dark and narrowed, and her lips twist and contort angrily as she spits out muffled protests; these protests are presumed to be profanities, as Cashmere very often glances at her from the corner of his eye in a very wary, but also stunned way, and the corners of his mouth promptly thrusts downward, becoming a slightly irritated but mostly worried scowl, as if he’s fretting that those profanities are actually witchy curses meant to hinder his ability to breathe or think.
Next comes the District 9 chariot, then Ten, and et cetera; the camera follows them as they parade through the Capitol, the crowd perpetually roaring their ecstasy, not becoming hushed till the chariots file one by one into the half-circle shaped plaza that stands before the training center, and then fan out in a C-formation. The president of Panem is perched atop a veranda, calm and stately as ever, his body straight and his face austere and his eyes condescending, and his fingers curling into his coat pocket. He looks down on the tributes, his mouth heavy and firm and grim, like a judge’s; his voice resonates all throughout the square, and initially, the majority of the tributes pay him attention – all except for Dishrag, who is too busy scratching at her makeup to care about the demands of the superior. “Welcome, tributes!” he bellows; and promptly, Ayn turns her face down from him, and becomes more intrigued in the horses ahead of her chariot than in her president. “I congratulate you on your being awarded this highest of titles…” As the camera creeps over to the District 6 chariot, one may notice Slug’s eyes flickering away from the president, his gaze roaming seemingly in the direction of the District 4 chariot, before suddenly jerking back to his leader; however, the majority of the audience are too distracted by Palanquin, who is slowly lifting herself off the floor of her chariot, to notice this. “…and I commend you on your bravery, during this greatest of sacrifices. Good luck, tributes, in the days to come – and may you all have a very happy Hunger Games…and may your odds…be forever in your favor.” A wave of clapping and whistling and cheering surges from the crowd, crushing any attempt at noise that bears no relevance to the president’s speech, and the live audience leaps up and down in such a fervent, respectful, subservient manner that their bounces might as well be bows. The president pays them no heed; his body turns around in a sweeping movement, and he leaves the veranda with neither a goodbye nor a passing glance.
We look through the eyes of a camera that is positioned behind the chariots, at the very mouth of the plaza from which the tributes had entered through, and we last see them being towed into the long, rectangular, yawning mouth of the training center, where the chariots always pass into, every year. As they move across the plaza, the horses quickly rearrange themselves until the chariots have taken a horizontal formation, and they all disappear into the training center simultaneously.
Before we can blink our eyes, we find ourselves teleported back to the little room where the feminine interviewer and Claudio the Announcer beam at us winsomely, as if we are old friends of theirs. “So ends another spectacular Opening Ceremonies, folks!” says Claudio, as he taps the desk with his fingertips for emphasis. He turns to the interviewer, and in a very smooth, dignified tone of voice, he says: “You know, I wouldn’t call that the best – exactly – Opening Ceremonies I’ve ever seen-”
“Right,” the interviewer murmurs her agreement, as her head moves up and down as if she was a bobble-head.
“-it kinda fizzled out at the end, personally-”
“Right.”
“-at least for me, anyway. But it certainly wasn’t boring, either.” He proceeds to gesture with his hands, as he continues: “It started off strong – it went on, for quite a while, pretty strong – but just as we kept going down the districts – it just kinda…the costumes were…”
“Unimaginative?” the interviewer says, her voice polite and soft.
“Uh – uh, yeah! Yeah – something like that.” He shrugs his shoulders. “I’d like to go on, but…”
The interviewer’s mouth spreads into a wide, open, cheerful grin, and she giggles a little, her laugh bright, more like the laughter of a girl than a woman. She sets her thin, white hand on his shoulder, and gives him a gentle nudge. “We’ll have time to analyze the Opening Ceremonies tomorrow, Claudio,” she reassures, and her head suddenly snaps around, so she’s now smiling at the camera. “And you make sure to be there, too! We’ll be discussing the chariots and interviewing the Gamemakers about what they’ll be expecting from this year’s tributes, so make certain you tune in tomorrow, three-thirty in the afternoon, at the same station!” Her hand flits off of Claudio’s shoulder as daintily as a butterfly alights into the air, and her fingers flick up and down in a gesture of farewell, as she giggles at the camera: “See yah then, everybody! Oh, and happy Hunger Games…”
They glance at each other from the corners of their eyes, and their grins instantaneously grow in size, as they’re remembering an inside joke; Claudio then harmonizes with her in the blessing: “…and may the odds be ever in your favor!”
Without any hint or gesture of us willing it to, the television screen – and a million others like it, all over Panem – blackens.
~{PRIVATE TRAINING SCORES}~
For the past few days, our television has shown nothing on its screen but a square, opaque void, and until today, there has been no reason for it to be otherwise, for there has been nothing important to watch. None of the interviews or discussions on the Games are mandatory; they are just simply there for the impatient members of society, so stimulated by the Hunger Games that they require sustenance to fill in the gaps of depravity during this three day long waiting period. We are not those people, however; thus, the television screen’s only purpose till the private training scores are revealed is to act as a black mirror, reflecting the living room and its denizens.
In all the bars that act as hubs for the sponsors, there is a large television that expands from the top-right corner of a wall and to the wall’s lower-left corner. On this television is the board of ratios for each tribute’s likelihood of survival; initially, it had been set in descending order of districts, starting with the District 1 male, and then ending with District 12 female. Now, however, it has flickered and switched on an hourly basis (unless the Gamemakers have decided that there is no need to change it, for it is by their observations during prep week that they determine it), and now the order is like this: Ayn Brookenford, District Four; curiously, Dishrag Kelly of District Eight; then all the other careers, the least likely to survive out of the entire pack being Coral Reefer of District Four, who is the “seventh most likely to survive”; then there is Pip Pippinson, followed by her district partner; Slug Lev of District Six; the District 10 tributes are bifurcated by the District 7 male; Cashmere O’Riley of District 8 lies below the District 10 male; the District 9 tributes; Mooney Crackers of District 5 surpasses Palanquin Symmetry of District 6 by only a little; the younger tributes have been rather fighting for the right of being the “nineteenth most likely to survive”, one flicking above the other, the longest either holding the position being Solana Reed, who, on the second day of the three-day period of training for our tributes, held the position for at least three hours, till Cashmere O’Riley somehow managed to snatch it from her. However, it is Solana Reed who will be the triumphant one, for the hourly changing of survival margins and ratios will be ended on the day of the private training scores’ announcement, and Solana has managed to usurp Cashmere’s position in the nick of time. Below Cashmere O’Riley is the District 7 female, and then there are the outline districts (excluding Nine and Ten, obviously), whose chances of surviving the Games have not moved once during the trio of training days.
But these ratios and chances are only hypotheses; things meant to attempt in the revival of a family’s cadaverous hopes (though, personally, I doubt any of the people in the districts actually pay close attention to that board). The same goes for these private training scores we are about to watch; they are not certainties: they are just attempts at consolation that most likely don’t succeed.
The ebony void of our television blinks into life as we settle onto the sofa, and becomes a window set directly atop a black desk, where the lovely interviewer sits, her slender fingers lifting up a leaf of paper, which presumably contains the tribute’s scores. Behind her, a short distance from her shoulder, stands a grayish screen that’s thinner than the paper the interviewer holds, and currently, whilst the screen is blank, it looks more like a filmy window than a screen. The interview’s thin, delicate mouth that has been painted black for the occasion curves upward, becoming a polite, yet warm smile, and she speaks: “Good afternoon, Panem! The time has come once again to read off the private training scores that our Gamemakers have so carefully prescribed! Now, then, starting with Sugary Freud of District One…” Upon the screen, Sugary Freud’s face appears, and as the interviewer breathes the respectably high number, one can see it wink onto the screen, starting off small, but as it grows and grows it gyrates, until it is as large as Sugary Freud’s face; the interviewer gives us enough time to process this, before Sugary Freud and his ranking melt away, and are replaced by Sugary’s compatriot, and later, her own score. This sudden appearance of the tribute’s face and neck and shoulders, as well as the growing and rotating of their respective scores, and then both the child and the number melting into nothingness is a process that will loop perpetually, until the interviewer has concluded with the announcement of the District 12 female’s score (who shall be the last of the tributes).
“Digit McGurt from District Three, with a score of five; Pip Pippinson from District Three, with a score of nine;” (Any numbers that are above six she reads with a gentle emphasis; those of double digits are said as interjections and with a very pleased grin.) “Coral Reefer from District Four, with a score of six; Ayn Brookenford from District 4 with a score of eleven! Mooney Crackers from District Five with a score of two; Solana Reed from District Five with a score of seven; Slug Lev from District Six with a score of eight; Palanquin Symmetry from District Six with a score of three…” She then reads the District 7 tributes’ individual scores. “…Cashmere O’Riley from District 8 with a score of four; Dishrag Kelly from District Eight, with a score of ten!” She reads the District 9 tributes’ scores, which are rather neither bad nor outstanding, and then the District 10 tributes, who co-own a surprisingly high score (in comparison to the majority of their predecessors), and then the District 11 and 12 tributes’ numbers, who are – as usual – very low and mediocre.
The camera permits the face and number of the District 12 female on the screen to fade into air, and the interviewer to set her paper on the desk, before it closes its portal-like eye, and the television becomes opaque. Tomorrow, at nine in the evening, it will switch on again by some hand that is not our own, and the tributes will be interviewed for the last official day of prep week, the last time we will see all the tributes alive and together, and then – the initiation of the Fifteenth Annual Hunger Games shall proceed at last.
~{TRIBUTE INTERVIEWS}~
The old clock on the wall announces the coming of nine o’clock with an abrupt, brassy bong; almost immediately afterwards, the television screen flickers from black to bright and beautiful and colorful, as we are transported to the interview stage, where neon screens float over the opaque stage. Our interviewer rests on an egg-shell white chair that stands a foot apart from its mate. Claudio the Announcer’s voice rings all around as he announces the interviewer, his voice grand and energetic, and these two qualities are compounded by the triumphant and rising cry of trumpets in the background. As her name booms all around, her small lips curve into a wide smile that has this strange, attractive flavor of aloofness, and the grin seems to stand as proof that she is an enigma, not be touched, not to be understood, only to be seen and heard. When the screen flickered on, she had her thin, cabaret-readied legs twisted around each other; presently, she quickly but not urgently unfolds them, and she lifts herself from the chair, and strides away from it. She lifts her arm into the air, and spreads her finger apart in welcome to the audience, who all beat their palms together rapidly and eagerly as a response. Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah hah haah, welcome, welcome friends, welcome!” she giggles. “We meet again, we meet again! Oh, here it is at last, folks, the last day of prep week – the day that we finally get a chance to truly meet the tributes intimately! The Tribute Interviews! Ooooooooooooh, aren’t we going to have such a delightful time tonight!”
The live audience cheers and claps happily as a promise that they are going to find the interviews absolutely splendid. The interview presses her fingertips to her lips and giggles almost knowingly, and as she does so she moves backward, until she is directly in front of her chair, and she practically falls into it limply, and lays her folded arm atop its arm. “Very well then, let’s get started!” she cheers. “Folks, I’d like you all to give a big, warm hand…” For the sake of emphasis she pauses, and she suddenly twists her body around and throws her arm outward. “…for Chant!”
In the minutes that come, the District 1 and 2 tributes have only proven one thing about them: they are absolutely cookie-cutter. There is no true personality behind them; they have shown themselves as arrogant, as ruthless, and nothing beyond that. Their escorts and mentors have advised them terribly, and their interviews are particularly boring. Some hope sparks within me, however, when Pip marches onto the stage, wearing a short dress of smoky grey velvet whose skirt does not come to her knees and, over heart, bears the emblem of District 3 that has been crafted from neon tubes, and her feet is shod with these jet black combat boots. It’s sort of interesting to look at, when you think about it: “cute cosmic cheerleader” (an air that the dress bears to my eyes, with its neon adornment and sleekness of fabric and shortness of skirt) with some military flair. It suits her well: for the dress and the makeup that has been dabbed onto her face brings some youthfulness into her hawkish countenance, and reveals to us a prettiness that had been too subtle previously, but is now being drawn out; however, in the way she moves and the fact that she wears such masculine footwear is a reminder to us all that she is of a ferocious, demanding nature, one that is not to be tried with for any occasion. She sits down in the chair opposite to the interviewer very stiffly, and gives the audience a quick scowl as she does so.
“Well, well, well, Pip!” the interviewer chuckles. “Are you ready for the Games? You certainly look as if you are! If I may say so, it looks as if you’re ready for anything!”
Pip turns her body away from audience and looks directly at the interviewer, as if she’s the only one in the city square. “I’d say so too,” she says very curtly, and her interview goes in the same manner, with only the most pertinent things being spoken. When questioned about her family, she merely shrugs, and replies very flatly, as if she is speaking about strangers, “I’ve a mother and a father. That’s all I’ve got, in terms of relations, aside from a few stray uncles that we barely keep in touch with.”
“Do you miss any of them?” the interview inquires very gently and softly.
Pip is very flat and forthright and ruthless: “No. Why?”
After such a cold (if not interesting) performance by Pip, it is rather nice and warming, as calm Digit McGurt walks onto the stage, and gives the audience a small, polite, but friendly smile, as a host might grin to the guests of his luxurious cocktail party. He sits beside the interviewer and becomes quite relaxed in his chair, but there remains a very subtle, but still noticeable dignity in the boy’s manners, in the way he holds himself, in the way he moves and speaks. His voice is a very languid one; it is a drawl that moves airily and sloth-like, as a spoiled aristocrat’s son might speak, but he speaks with so much more wisdom and intelligence than any old spoiled rich fellow’s brat might, and unlike the stereotypical aristocratic progeny, he is far more susceptible to wit, often of the self-deprecatory sort, which both the audience and the interviewer often speak out against, but Digit merely shrugs his shoulders slightly, and continues on with their conversation as if nothing has happened.
Once their fifteen minutes together are up, interviewer and tribute stand up in unison, and Digit reaches for the interviewer’s hand and bends down to give her fingers a very light, polite, reverent kiss on the fingers, to which the audience claps in admiration to his austere, but somehow affectionate gentlemanliness. However, before the audience can stop themselves from clapping, Ayn Brookenford of District 4 suddenly marches onto the stage, makes a bee-line for Digit (who is just pulling his body erect after his small, gentlemanly kiss), and gives him a very pointed-looking tap on his shoulder blade with her knuckles. Digit jolts forward slightly, and twists his body around to look at her; they pause for a moment, eyes meeting, and then Ayn points over her shoulder with her thumb, and across her fierce countenance stretches a thin, irritated scowl. Digit scowls as well, but his mouth curves downward far more gracefully and with much more dignity than Ayn; he lowers the interviewer’s hand back to her side, releases it, and withdraws, with his head held high and with no regrets.
Ayn flops onto the chair where the tributes are designated to sit in, and lifts her face up to the interviewer and wrinkles her nose at her contemptibly, as if she has suddenly become a member of a dominant race in comparison to the interviewer and Ayn is not very likely to forget it. Ayn’s stylist seems to have been very much inspired by coral this year; the girl wears a coral pink dress of what appears to be of the mermaid style, with the slender, tight, long bodice that stretches down to about the knees, where it suddenly poofs into a fluffy, lacey skirt. A belt that appears to be made entirely out of small shells hugs her hips. Curling around her scalp is a headdress of what looks to be barnacles that each have one small diamondesque object wedged into each one, and these “diamonds” (it’s hard to tell if they’re real or not) snatch the lights of the stage and claim it as their own, wearing the illumination to make them sparkle like tiny stars. She lifts up one of her athletic legs, and lets it drape over the other, and in doing so, the camera can now permit us to take a glance at her shoes: she is shod in high heels (that she has no trouble walking in, by the bye) that are of neon orange in colors, and the heels have been shaped to look very similar to the sea anemone, with only a far more slender column; but aside from the skinny sea anemone, the attempt is still very clear and rather admirable, in the way the trunk has been speckled and the fact that it looks very fleshy and squishy, much like a sea anemone, and the flaring tentacles that sprout at the part where the heel connected to the shoe, which wiggle and flicker every time Ayn moves her feet.
The interviewer seems to not heed the arrogant intent behind Ayn’s sneer, and only looks down at the younger female with very kind, warm eyes, and playing on her face is a small, enchanting, patient smile. She sits down on the chair and leans in it gracefully, with her body as relaxed as a sleeping cat’s. “So, Ayn?” she says, and her voice is soft and friendly. “You’re quite a bold girl, aren’t you?”
Ayn blinks slowly, and as she looks at the interviewer with cocky, indifferent eyes beneath drooping eyelids, her profile is turned towards the camera, reminding the nation of Panem that she is quite a pretty girl – aside from her rashness, hawkishness, tactlessness. “Maybe,” she grunts with a shrug of her shoulders, and she enfolds her arms over her chest in an almost resolute manner, as if she’s a wall and by crossing her arms over her she manages to thicken herself and protect whatever lies behind.
The interviewer’s patient smile twitches larger, and she chuckles slightly. “Ah heh! You ought to be, especially with that score of yours!” She leans forward slightly and winks at Ayn; Ayn promptly furrows her brow and wrinkles her nose in contempt, and she noticeably presses her back against the back of her chair. “An eleven!” the interviewer continues. “The highest score this year! I bet you were this” – she holds up her hand, and holds the pad of her index finger a hairsbreadth apart from her thumb’s tip – “close to getting a twelve, huh?”
“Maybe,” is all Ayn says.
The interviewer leans back as her hand goes forward, and gives Ayn a small tap on the knee, and in response to the touch the tribute promptly jerks her legs back and wrinkles her nose, as if a cockroach had just scraped its antennae against her kneecap, rather than a fellow human being’s fingers. The interviewer fails to notice the tribute’s recoil and chuckles very warmly, as if she is praising a daughter: “Nothing fazes you, huh?”
Ayn simply shrugs; that’s how she responds to most of the questions the interviewer asks afterwards. A simple shrug, and a quick glance in her direction – as if she thought she heard something, a faint whisper perhaps, or the breath of a sudden and short breeze; something slight and hardly noticeable, just enough for her to look up and barely respond, before withdrawing back into her thick shell. She makes it very hard for the interviewer, who tries to smash that shell and reveal the squishy, formless body who can do nothing, once its armor is pierced; for nobody eats the shell of a mollusk – only the mollusk itself is edible, is worth consuming. But this little mollusk is impregnable and steadfast; nothing the interviewer tries – such as questions about her family, about love interests, et cetera, et cetera – can penetrate her. It’s almost reminiscent of Pip’s interview, but Ayn’s aloofness and withdrawn air seems a tad more natural, less forced and direct. Pip’s responses had all had an ascertainable context, and the way she had cut herself apart from other human beings seemed to have been quite intentional – whether or not it was merely a ploy for the sponsors, or if that’s just the way she is, I do not know; however, Ayn’s aloofness is vaguer, more intriguing: instead of a girl who simply doesn’t care, Ayn comes off as a girl who simply doesn’t care for a good reason. What that reason is, however, she does not reveal, and when one thinks about it, it makes rather good sense: sponsors like mysterious tributes, because obscurity is considered by most as a sexy quality (such is the reason why spies are so attractive to the entertainment sector); plus, there is no reason to whip out any sympathy cards, for it is quite evident by simply looking at her well-built figure that she can stand on her own by simple brute force, and even if she did not have this quality, her private training score – an imperious and triumphant eleven – rather speaks for itself.
She quits the stage with neither a goodbye nor a glance at the crowd, but instead only concentrates on her limbs, which whisk her away from the interviewer at a brusque and busy pace, as if she has something far more important that needs attending. The moment the tribute is gone, the interviewer turns to the audience and, without a single hint of anger or distress to reveal a decision that she had not enjoyed her interview with Ayn Brookenford, she announces Coral Reefer. Coral replaces his district partner in a quick, energetic fashion: he rushes onto stage as if he’s being chased by a herd of bulls, and the moment he’s at the interviewer’s side, he thrusts his arms into the air and whoops with hyperactive ecstasy. The interviewer giggles, and urges him to sit down; it takes her a few seconds to convince him that such stillness and inactivity was possible, but he concedes in the end. The interview commences; Coral attempts keeping his energetic and enthusiastic air by practically shouting his answers at the interviewer and cracking a few silly jokes that only he laughs at, but in the end, his batteries prove to be overcharged. By the end of the interview, Coral’s body is listing forward, his mouth is gaping open as if he’s silently panting, and he can barely keep eye contact with the interviewer. When it is time for them to say goodbye, Coral dips his head respectfully but also in a very subdued fashion to the interviewer, and then turns to give the audience a feeble goodbye. He grunts a little, as he lifts himself off the chair, and he shuffles away, his shoulders sagging slightly, as if he is wearing a very full backpack.
Little Solana Reed from Five hurries forward, her curtain of hair now drawn up into listless pony-tails that lean against her thin clavicle. She is mothered a warm welcome from the interviewer, and a respectful round of claps from the audience, as she settles into her chair. She makes direct eye contact with the interviewer, and her replies are intelligent and earnest, as if she’s the sort of person who is perfectly incapable of telling lies, even little white ones. When the interviewer brings up origins, Solana claims to hail from a medical background, rather than an energy one; her father was a doctor and her mother, his nurse until a wedding locked them together and child rearing became the main priority for Mrs. Reed. “Dad used to bring me with him whenever he made house-calls, and sometimes I’d help him,” Solana mentions, her voice breathing with profoundness – for this is clearly a hint to the sponsors.
Solana Reed eventually leaves the stage, and she flings a certain smile at the audience before she disappears offstage. Mooney Crackers replaces her; he comes off a very subdued creature who mentions how his mother died from urinary cancer in long sentences whose words are drawn out by misery and bifurcated by sighs. Clearly, the fellow is not afraid to pine for pity. Unfortunately for him, whether this is a ploy or an actual personality trait, I don’t think he’ll do well with the sponsors; as everyone knows, the pitiful ones rarely win the Games – or anything else, really.
Once Mooney’s through cracking at the emotional seams, Palanquin Symmetry barely walks on. I say ‘barely’, because she comes into view shuffling, and then promptly stops and stands like a frozen statue as she faces the crowd with eyes bigger than my head. The interviewer has to come over and take her hand and smile at her as if they were old friends in order to coax Palanquin into a seat. The interviewer makes sure to continue the soothing with as many good jokes as possible, and she talks to Palanquin with the relaxedness and familiarity of a best friend. Indeed, as Palanquin’s timidity melts and her sociality begins to bloom, it turns into more of a conversation than an interview – at least, in the way they talk. It’s as if the audience is nonexistent – and if it must exist to the interviewer and the interviewee, then the crowd is merely one large picture, dilated into realistic measures and slanted upon the ground till it inclines like a hill.
Palanquin turns out to be the average, sweet “girl next door” – the one who’s so normal that you can’t help but trust her and like her, if you notice her, which you probably won’t. She reveals that her parents are divorced, and that she has lived with her father ever since the separation (her mother isn’t the sort that is to be very trusted by a judge, you see). Her father is in the wheel manufacturing business (he’s the one who manufactures the wheels, not the one who sells them), and she mentions that she got her build from him. “My mom’s practically anorexic, compared to us,” Palanquin remarks with gruff indifference.
Palanquin quits the stage with a polite wave at the interviewer – she almost refuses to glance at the audience as she leaves, however.
The interviewer’s long and silky legs lift her from her seat; she turns to the audience, and with a smile that reaches up to her eyes, she declares: “Now then, everyone! I’d like to introduce to you the male tribute from District Six: a Mister Slug Lev, who has been very enthusiastic so far – probably the most enthusiastic out of all the tributes, really, so I think he’d be most deserving of a very warm, very hearty welcome when he comes on, alright? So, get ready, and…” Her arm sweeps outward, like a curtain opening to reveal the actors. “Come on up here, Slug!”
Enter Slug, with his feet prompt and light, a roar of applause greeting him. His hand is like a bullet soaring from a gun when he sees the crowd, and he waves it at them as if it’s flag; his smile shimmers with enthusiasm and the pride of being present and – and genuineness. One can tell that he’s truly happy to be there, by the way his eyes widen and twinkle like blue stars in a white sky, and by the softness of his smile; for, when a person forces a grin, it always looks very rigid and frozen and hard, as if it’s falsehood makes it unbendable – but when a smile is real, there’s a level of comfortableness, as well as a visual likelihood of dying, that comes with it. The one that Slug wears is proudly real – or it’s a product fashioned by a very superb actor.
The interviewer beckons him towards her; the motion attracts his gaze, and as his eyes settle atop the interviewer, his lips close against each other, and his mouth becomes a small, gentle grin with a faint hint of loving timidity brushed across his lips. He reaches up to adjust his silky, elegantly black vest – though it was already fixed rightly enough beforehand – and he proceeds to the chair, and as he walks, he keeps his face turned to the audience, his glittering eyes roaming the amassed faces, and he grins approvingly into every pair of eyes that he notices.
He halts in front of his chair, and clasps his hands before a belt that – might just be crafted from gold, if my eyes do not deceive me. It is hard to tell, for it’s a rather thin thing, and his entwined hands block the view partially; however, the belt is set atop a backdrop of a sheeny black (his pants are of a black that has a white streak of sheen, as if it’s shaped from a piece of metal), and thus the luxurious yellow is hard to miss, being a contrasting color.
Slug nods his head to the interviewer – a cue to be the first to sit down. Her lips jump into a larger, laughing grin as she realizes this act of politeness, and as she lowers herself again, she utters a word of thanks that is gentled by happy surprise. Slug reciprocates the thank you graciously as he removes his hands from each other and stretches them out on the chair’s arms; as he does this, one might notice that it seems that the buckle (which his hands had previously covered up) is quite round, and if one looks closely enough – that it appears to have been lovingly chipped into what appears to be the face of a pious lion. However, the buckle is partially covered as he bends his body and then lowers himself onto the seat. The interviewer’s eyes flick downward as he does this, and then goes upward as he completes the movement by lacing his fingers and propping his locked hands on his knee. “That’s a lovely belt you have there,” she comments.
The boy glances at her; as he does, his smile melts into a small frown that is dragged downward by confusion. Then, suddenly, the corners are freed from their bewildering bonds, and they twitch upward in grateful appreciation, whilst his eyes travel down. “Oh, well – thank you, ma’am. My-”
She whips her head around, and she barks at the audience: “Did you see that?” There are a few shouts of nugatory from behind the camera. As if ordered to, the interviewer compliantly turns her head to Slug, and says, “Could you stand up again, please?”
Slug blinks, and his frown becomes innocently obedient. “Yes ma’am,” he says as he lifts himself up and holds his hands rigidly beside him.
“It’s simply…that craftsmanship is…” The interviewer shakes her head, as if trying to deny her astonishment. “Did your stylist design that?”
“Ah, no, ma’am. It’s a present from my father, actually.” His smile is soft as she lets out an impressed exclamation. “He – uh – gave it to me before I left.” Slug’s smile widens. “I got it back just in time for today, so I figured I’d wear it.”
“It’s lovely,” the interviewer murmurs, with her chin bobbing up and down, as if she’s finally come to terms with her astonishment. “Why a lion?”
Slug tosses a glance at her. “Ah, well – don’t ask me what language this is from – but ‘Lev’ – that’s my last name, in case anybody forgot – means ‘lion’. Sorta like ‘Leo’. So, uh, yeah!” He shrugs his shoulders lightly, as if satisfied.
“I think you may sit down now.” Slug obediently does so, but he does not set his hands atop his knees – rather, he keeps them stretched out atop the arms of his chair. The interviewer continues: “So, are you trying to say that it’s a family heirloom?”
Slug nods his head in confirmation. “Yup! Real old, too. We don’t even know.”
“My!” the interviewer breathes. “You must come from a rich family, huh?”
Slug’s body jerks with a small laugh that is weighed down by its knowledge. “Oh, no, ma’am, not me. We’re pretty sure there was a time, but – eh.” He shrugs again. “My pop just fixes the freight trains when they break down. My ma fuels up the trains when they stop by. I do odd jobs after school and all – but none of that altogether can really make us rich. I suppose we could sell my belt – probably get a good payload from the mayor, yah know – but…we don’t really want to.” He shrugs again. “I guess we’re too proud to act like middle-class people, yah know. Selling stuff you don’t need just to shove a little more food onto the table – not that we really don’t need it, yah know. We get by pretty good alone. It’s not like we’re dirt poor, or anything.”
The interviewer bobs her head. “It sounds to me like you’re around trains often, huh?” she says with a slight smile.
A grin flies up his face as he tucks his chin inward. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Do you like trains?”
“Oh, yes ma’am!” His chin flies out of its hiding place. “I adore ‘em! I mean, they’re wonderful, you know! If you’ve ever seen one – oh! The speed – the motion – the grandeur! They’re so – so sleek, you know? And – and there’s this – this perfect harmony between them, sort of; this balance between the rails and the train; this sense of trust!” Slug’s hands flutter with enthusiasm. “I mean, you can’t have the train without the rails – then again, the rails would be a waste of metal without the train! And – and do you know how powerful those trains are? How much food is shipped between district and Capitol, thanks to them? I mean, I suppose that one can pack all the food into a hovercraft, but hovercrafts are so – delicate. They’d be weighed so horribly down by all the food a train can carry, so that their bottoms dragged across the ground!” A small chuckle ripples from the ground by the image Slug has inserted into their minds. Slug flicks his face toward them, and nods at the audience like a wizened sage. “But it’s true! Without trains, trade would not be as possible and as efficient! Not to mention the fact that trains’ are much older than hovercrafts – older than Panem, in fact! Believe me, if it weren’t for trains, there’d be no hovercrafts – you simply have to look at the technological similarities, as well as the historical factor, to sympathize with me. Goodness! I bet a lot of the great and – and absolutely stunning technology you Capitolites are absolutely blessed with” (note that his voice is breathy with respect, and is not at all acidic with sarcasm) “would not have happened if some really old guy hadn’t built the first train!”
The interviewer’s eyes are propped up by amused respect. She leans forward, and her forefinger extends. “Do you know how you talk?” Slug turns his face to her, and looks at her with childish blankness. “Intelligently!” She tosses her hands downward, as if presenting to him something quite special. “What other intelligent things do you like or think about often?”
Slug’s laugh is acute, curt, and embarrassedly grateful. “Well – ah hah – I guess I like math and science. And – and I like to think about people often, too. I like them, you see. Well – us would be the proper word for it. I mean, if a man could build the train and the hovercraft and so many wonderful gadgets in this superbly engineered city – why shouldn’t we – as a race – be as wonderful as the things we make? After all, it’s what we produce during our lifetimes that will stick around, because – well, clearly it’s pretty hard for destroyed things to, yah know.”
The audience snickers slightly, and he pauses politely to let them finish their giggles. The interviewer takes this moment of silence to snatch back the reins of the interview and turn it into a more prudent path rather than a philosophical one – one that’ll keep the sponsors cheering, rather than snoring. “You know, if you’ve thought through why you appreciate humanity, Slug, you’ve probably thought out your strategy for the Games, huh?”
Slug flinches slightly, as if she’s taken him by the collar and yanked him back into reality. “Oh! Ah – yes, I suppose so.”
“Do you feel ready for tomorrow?”
Slug pauses for a moment, his eyes blank and no longer twinkling, as if “tomorrow” hasn’t occurred to him; as if “tomorrow” wasn’t real, until she mentioned it; as if “tomorrow” couldn’t be scientifically possible. Gradually, he blinks; he nods his head in the same manner. “Ah – yes. I suppose I have,” he mumbles – but he doesn’t look so sure.
The interviewer’s head nods once in a curtly fashion; she extends her hand and gives the back of his a small pat. “I bet you’ll be very clever in that arena – very clever.” Slug’s mouth cringes into a smile, and his eyes stare at his pants. “Well – it’s almost time.” Don’t ask me how she knows that. Probably some bug’s in her ear and now some producer’s shouting at her. How the Hell should I know? “Anything else you would like to say before you go?” She withdraws her hand, as if to give him permission to speak.
Slug’s shuddering grin empties and lowers, until it’s a tiny, delicate frown that doesn’t understand life, or his presence, or why time flows. He stares at his pants, as if they’re the most profound things he’s ever seen; then, as if someone’s curled their finger around his chin and is now turning and tilting it, he looks at the interviewer, and admits: “I haven’t told you everything.” Confusion jerks the interviewer’s eyebrows closer, with nothing but intensity to bifurcate them. “I mean – about my name.” Her brows promptly relax. “‘Lev’ also means ‘heart’.”
The interviewer’s face softens, as if she’s come across an orphaned kitten. “‘Lion’ and ‘heart’,” she breathes, as her mouth crawls into a smile. “I suppose that makes you a ‘lion-heart’, doesn’t it, Slug?”
Slug’s pensive frown breaks into an embarrassed grin, and his laugh drags his eyes down to his hand. The interviewer reaches over and takes him by the scapula, and as she moves, she lifts him off his seat; they stand close together, the lanky interviewer with her glisteningly ruby heels looking like an Amazon when juxtaposed with the fifteen-year-old midget beside her. He waves at the audience with friendly enthusiasm – and I’m quite certain that he’s actually quite glad to stand before them.
“Everyone, let’s give this young man a great big hand!” the interviewer orders, her voice jumping up and down with joy. The audience lift themselves from their seats, and their applause is not also satisfied, but also respectful, as if they’re clapping goodbye to a finished speaker at a seminar that they were good enough to pay attention at. Slug Lev turns and steps back, and offers the interviewer his hand, which she’s more than happy to reach down and take and shake. As their hands depart, he gives her a respectful nod, and he then turns to leave. As he exits the stage, he waves his hand at the audience proudly, only dropping it right before he disappears offstage.
Then come the District 7 kids; they are followed by Dishrag Kelly, who does nothing but poke and prod the interviewer with disparaging words, and then Cashmere O’Riley, who is tactless, but humorous. They are then followed by the other children, the most boring out of all of them being the children from Twelve.
Thus ends the interviews. The light and fluffiness that both the tributes and the squeamish have enjoyed for this long is now over; tomorrow, there shall be bloodshed.
-{DAY ONE – BLOODBATH}-
I wonder what goes through those kids minds when they’re elevated atop that silver plate; what they feel - how they see the arena. I wonder if they’re scared, or if they’re confident, or if – or if they’re proud. If they’re ready to die, or to win; if they’re patriotic enough to understand that this is necessary: that this is more than just a game – that it’s a public service, designed to keep the peace.
But I wonder how far one can maintain peace. In extent, I mean.
But there’s no point in speculating.
The moment we woke up this morning, all were tense. There’s no point in relaxation today. There’s never any relaxation – anywhere. Even in the Capitol, I think, there are several individuals who wonder at what they’re watching; who shudder at the gruesome sights. After all, they’re human. Though they are excessively colorful, on the inside, there lies warmth and blood and love. In fact, I rather think that all those chants and mobs that surround the training center during prep week are merely theatrics for the president, for I believe that it is the president who gives them all their luxuries and necessities, not themselves. Thus, they are made numb and reliant; reliant ones cannot rise up and scream evils, for their dependence has numbed their will – thus, they become mobs that love what they see; mobs built from the voices and bodies of individuals who despise their lack of independence and despise the production of their reliance. Yes, yes! I know the classic stereotype: egotistical, bubbly, stupid! But why? Why must they be like that to you? Why must they be organized into one main body (aside from a few mentionable fellows)? What makes them any less human than you are, simply because they wear wigs and lip gloss? Well?
I thought so.
It’s almost time for the Games, you know. I wonder who will die first. I hope it’s not that boy from Six. I rather like him. Out of all the tributes, who do you hope will survive?
The television flickers before us; a small shudder of light, and then a full image. The cameras have clicked into life just in time for us to witness the tributes ascending into the arena. They look around; the view from the television skips into the perspective of a lens that hovers above the Cornucopia: we see that, to the east, there lies a thick forest, with branches clumped together like knots of hair; to the west, there is a building, which stretches upward, tall and oblong and red-bricked. It looks like a nondescript hotel, with an old awning stretching over the glass doorway; painted onto the awning’s face by a precise, mechanical hand is a twin of words: “Hunger Hotel”. How inviting!
The tributes have been set up into a circular position around the Cornucopia, which is per the norm for the Bloodbath. This year’s Bloodbath site seems to be a small plaza of sorts, with gray flagstone lain down, with sprigs of grass bifurcating each slate of flat stone. The flagstone encircles the Cornucopia, and they make smoky gray paths to its yawning and gilded mouth.
The timer at the corner of the screen reads forty seconds left. All the tributes appear to have gotten quite used to their new surroundings, and are now bracing themselves, turning around or bending their knees and body in preparation for flight or fight. The cameras set at the base of the Cornucopia let us peer at our contestants: Chant, Sugary, Coral, and the District 2 children all look very ready and very careerish; Ayn Brookenford is – to say the least – bored out of her wits. (Good God, does anything faze that thing?) There is Solana, with her little legs spread apart and her arms held out and her fists clenched and her head bowed and leaning forward, and her eyes look very earnest; beside her is Slug, whose face is tense and whose body flinches occasionally, and whose fingers runs along the loop of his gaudy belt, and whose mouth keeps twitching in some strange, solemn fashion, as if he is praying. One can see Palanquin shudder, and how her face is tense with tears, yet her eyes are dry; one can see Dishrag Kelly, with a hyena smile and a hyena glint in her eyes, and who looks like a hyenafied career.
The gong screams eventually. They’re all rockets as they come off their plates, some taking a bold chance for riches at the Cornucopia, others accepting cowardice and flying away. I see Slug in the background as the camera assumes a new position; he’s another one who’s decided a yellow streak up his belly is far more comfortable than several sanguinary ones. Oddly enough, while the camera remains in its position I see Solana Reed, who is charging for the Cornucopia, not charging for the forest or the hotel – which I, for one, find rather interesting, as most intelligent tributes her age often head straight for the hills.
In this case, however, it seems that the older tribute of the district – Mooney Crackers – is the one who’s flying, rather than the other way around (which is more common). In fact, it seems that he’s the fastest of all the fleers, for it is he who is the closest to his destination: the eastward forest, whose lanky trees open their curved boughs to him in loving embrace. He nears, he nears! Behind him we hear the beginnings of battle – we are given a brief glimpse of Ayn Brookenford of Four throwing down the District 1 girl (oddly enough), Chant Singing, who then squeals in agony – our attentions are returned to him, and we watch as he quickens. He’s nearer, he’s nearer! Oh, ready yourselves, ladies and gents, it is a survivor we have on our hands here!
He is at the end – the very tip of the edge of the Bloodbath’s site – all that stands in his path are trees – then – WHAM! He has stopped! He has stopped! It’s as if he’s driven himself into a wall! I mean, that’s literally what it looks like! And then, before any of us can breathe, can think…
In one dramatic surge of violence, he begins to convulse; his arms flop; he screams a primal screech of agony. Around him, broken and bent rings of electricity arch outwardly, going in all directions, until we see an entire wall of electricity that rises to the sky, that is taller than even the Hunger Hotel, that blocks the entire view of the forest. Blue crackles from it; in those horrific moments, it is the only color in the Bloodbath: it shines off of everything, dyes everything in its cold and unfeeling light. As we listen to Mooney’s screams, we are given brief glimpses of blue faces: Solana’s, whose mouth has stretched open and whose face is streaked by two lines of tears; Pip’s, whose face is just as cold as the blue that colors it; we see Ayn’s raised brow; Slug’s stunned expression; Dishrag’s ravenously hyena-like grin.
Then, it is over. The victim falls, and his body makes a horrific thud noise as it crashes to the flagstone. Mooney Crackers of District 5 is dead.
The first to die is dead, and no one moves. All is still, as if all the tributes are paying their respects at a funeral. We see more faces; understanding resides in each.
“Are…,” quivers Palanquin, “are we…trapped?”
The camera jerks to the District 2 girl, who was the first to reach the Cornucopia and the first to obtain her weapons, which is a leather bag filled with lawn darts. The bag is open; she has already reached into it, she has produced her dart: then, in a blink, the dart becomes deadly as it rockets through air. It hits the husky boy from Eleven in the back; his sternum lurches forward, his fingers become crooked as he bellows in agony. His sudden outburst draws everyone’s attention to his death: they all watch as he staggers, then drops, then dies.
A disgracefully hyena-like, whooping cackle disrespects the poor boy’s death almost immediately; the camera promptly swings to Dishrag Kelly of Eight, whose hyena-face is drawn tight with pleasure, whose eyes sparkle as if they were hit by sunlight. She’s running her hands together in glee; she’s rocking back and forth like a maniac. She then cackles: “It’s still the Bloodbath, bitches! Whooook whooook whoooook!”
Then, as if they’ve all been reminded of something very important, as if they’ve all forgotten of Mooney’s death, all become animated. Those who were fleeing now run back and forth, trying not to be noticed, as they try to sketch up a new plan; those who were ready to fight continue on their race to the Cornucopia. Out of instinct, a few snatch up bags and hold their goods close to their bodies, as if the bags are shields. One is Ayn Brookenford, who grabs a bag and then darts away from the Cornucopia, crossing over to the other side of the Bloodbath, near to the hotel.
As people pounce on the Cornucopia and scoop up weapons with unbridled avarice, we see that the Gamemakers have become quite creative, as of late: instead of the typical sword and knife, we are given home appliances, such as clocks and light-bulbs. If one’s eyes remain vigilant in this momentum of action, one can Dishrag Kelly scoop up a belt that has been equipped with a dozen loops that contain – oh Lord! – throwing scissors; one might also note Pip Pippinson as she rips a full-size vacuum cleaner from the clutches of the District Nine boy, and, with remarkable and shocking might, bashes his jaw with one of its wheels; and, there I see little Solana, still shaking and still crying, swallowing and clearly trying not to be a twelve-year-old, as she holds her table lamp close to her. Cashmere stands beside her, his legs straddled defiantly and he has the defiant defensiveness of an older brother darkening his gaze as he urges her along, weaving her through the traffic of death, and occasionally thrusting his pen at those who had the gall to approach.
In a matter of moments, all the tributes of Twelve and Eleven have been slain – all of which being victims of the bloodthirsty career pack (which – if this has not been made clear before – does not include Ayn Brookenford). One of their members, Coral Reefer, stands at the back of the Cornucopia, legs straddled and body tight with the readiness of action, a toaster tucked under one arm, his other arm bearing a lawn gnome. He glances around himself; then, he catches sight of Slug Lev, streaking up to the Cornucopia, his celerity being compounded by panic and adrenaline. Coral sucks on his lips, his eyes narrowing, and he pulls his gnome out from under his arm. He braces himself, and checks that Slug hasn’t noticed him; then, he charges.
As it appears, Coral’s plan was to charge smack into Slug like a mad bull, so that Slug would stagger and fall and become vulnerable, and then Coral would proceed to pulverize him with his gnome. A Coral-like plan, to be sure. It soon proves faulty, however, as Slug pauses, snatches a satchel off the ground, looks up, and then his eyes bulge as he sees Coral closing in on him. He bellows in surprise, and leaps forward, just in time to dodge the attack; Coral shoots past him, skids to a halt, and whirls around. He snorts in frustration, but does not let his mistake upset him to the point of surrender; again, he throws himself at Slug, gnome raised and ready to make contact. But Slug’s size has given him the advantage (as you should already know, it is common knowledge that smaller people are quite often the quicker and slippier), and he backs out of the way as the gnome is swung down. A primal groan of irritation tears out of Coral’s throat, and – supposedly out of frazzled exasperation, though he might have actually been trying to trip Slug up or something (remember that Coral is not a smart boy) – he takes up his toaster, and throws it at Slug’s head. But Slug’s quite content on letting this skirmish remain a dull one, for he promptly throws himself out of its path and it crashes to the ground.
Then a twist curls into the plot! Both realize that a weapon stands ownerless on the ground; both realize that one is weaponless. Their eyes stare at the toaster for a moment, then they lock gazes, and then – they dive with unfurled and greedy hands! In one blink, a winner emerges, toaster in hand; in one blink, the toaster crashes against the loser’s ribcage with enough force to put a dent in both the weapon and the ribcage, and the loser staggers backward, grunting his surprise. Seeing his chance, the winner flees, rather than kills – for that winner was Slug Lev.
He streaks across the rest of the plaza; his path remains unnoticed – except by Ayn Brookenford, who stands straddled, satchel in hand. As he rockets by her, her eyes run to follow him, and she watches with a raised brow as he approaches the hotel. There he pauses; he throws out his toaster, walks a few feet, then throws it again. He does this until he reaches the door, and then, with a satisfied grin, he disappears inside it.
Ayn pauses, her brows raised slightly in aloof surprise; then the corner of her mouth reaches upward, curling her lips into a smirk, and she follows after him – the second to successfully flee the Bloodbath.
Just as Ayn vanishes into the Hunger Hotel, the scream of the District Seven girl rips the air into shreds, and the screen flinches just in time for us to witness her demise. Blood trickles from the side of her skull, down to her neck; Coral Reefer stands over her, his face a mere shadow, a bloodied lawn gnome in his grasp.
The camera returns us to the Cornucopia, and we are just in time to witness Solana Reed snatch a medical kit. She turns her face to Cashmere, and shows it to him; he nods, takes her by the elbow, and proceeds to lead her out of the Cornucopia. However, just as they reach its mouth, the wily District Nine female leaps out from her hiding place – a stack of crates – and lunges at them. Both of the children flinch and shout their surprise, but both lunge back with their weapons, smacking and stabbing her hands with their individual weapons. The attacker flinches, but she’s not giving up; she lifts her leg up and plants her boot against Cashmere’s face, pushing him backward, and with a cry, he falls. Solana turns and shouts his name – and the attacker lunges again, and rips the medical kit out of Solana’s hand. Solana flinches and begins to move, but her antagonist is too fast – already, she’s out of the Cornucopia. The only thing that can slow her down is the District 2 female’s lawn dart – which shoots through the air and catches the poor girl in the back of the neck, and down she falls.
The murderous career girl smirks in delight, and whispers to Sugary Freud, who stands beside her: “These last few’ll be easy.” She refers to Palanquin Symmetry, Solana Reed, Cashmere O’Riley, Pip Pippinson, and Dishrag Kelly. The others, such as Digit McGurt of Three, the District 10 children, and the survivors of Seven and Nine, were either fleeing and/or out of her sight. One of the sole latter was Digit McGurt.
Like the District 9 girl, Digit, too, had hid behind some crates, and now he peers over them, his eyes narrowed at the District 2 girl. He looks away only to gather up his weapon – a tall lamp with a brassy stem – and holding it carefully, he creeps up to her, careful that neither victim nor companion notice. He pauses behind her; he holds his lamp like a baseball bat; then, he swings! Its rod crashes into her the base of her spine and a grunt of surprise is thrown out of her mouth as she stumbles forward. Digit whirls around, and slams his lamp into Sugary’s stomach, and beneath the force of the blow the career tumbles down. Digit then turns and lifts his lamp into the air; he screams with the might of a roaring lion: “ATTACK!”
Chant Singing, the female from One, who had been collecting her weapon that had slipped out of her hand during the commotion, looks up, and realizes the mess she and her companions have been tossed into. She sees Digit with his lamp held high in the air, like a flag, like a freedom fighter’s sword; she sees her companions on the ground, their hands stamped to their hurts; she sees the non-careers – the supposed easy targets – Dishrag, Pip, Palanquin, Solana, Cashmere; she sees them rise, and she sees them advance at the cry of their leader.
Clutched in the fist of shock, all she can scream is: “What the Hell?”
Just then, Coral appears at the mouth of the Cornucopia, his face contorted with confusion at the cries and screams he had just heard, as well as in pain by the agony in his ribs. Dishrag promptly whirls around; her face twists into an unholy hyena-like smile; her arm is like a whip as she snatches a throwing scissor from her belt and tosses it at him. Her cry of triumph resounds – “Whooooooo! Whooooooook! Whoooooook!” – as the projectile plunges into his face.
And then the non-careers fall on the careers.
The District 2 male curls his lip as he watches his compatriots be set on; as his district partner’s face is shoved to the ground by the foot of Digit’s lamp; as Sugary’s arm bends the wrong way against the weight of Pip’s vacuum; as Chant squeezes Dishrag’s wrists while the ugly lunatic tries to shove one of her scissors into her victim. He gnashes his teeth, and turns; and behind him, a kitchen knife is thrust into his back. In an instant, his body becomes limp, and he drops to the ground; Palanquin stands over him, her fingers bloody, her entire body quivering at the sight of the horrible, unpronounceable thing she has just done. She’s pale – like a corpse; the blood stands blatant and vivid on her ashen fingers. She releases a small whimper, but that’s all she seems to be capable of doing. It’s as if she’s paralyzed, but still able to stand. Or perhaps I should say “frozen” – frozen in a capsule of ice, unable to move, unable to break free.
As her district partner lies dead, the District 2 female frees her head from beneath the lamp’s foot, and she lifts herself up with her hands and knees. She reaches and manages to grab the rod of Digit’s lamp; she pulls herself to feet, struggling with Digit all the while, and then with a primal growl she tears it from his fingers. His face promptly falls ashen; he backs away in a dazed manner; it’s as if he’s looking at Death himself. As she contorts her face into one of twisted, demonic passion, she rams the foot of the lamp into Digit’s gut, and thus pins him to the wall of the Cornucopia. The wind is knocked from his lungs; his head lurches forward; his mouth falls open and his body becomes limp and stunned. She lifts it, ready to slam the foot of her lamp against his skull, when-!
As Two was attacking Digit, Dishrag Kelly had managed to free her wrist from Chant’s grasp, and the camera was just in time for us to see the District 8 female plunge her scissor into Chant’s heart twice. As she rips her weapon free from Chant’s chest for the second time, Dishrag turns, just in time to see her leader about to be pulverized by his own weapon. Without bothering to think, Dishrag throws her bloodied scissor at the girl from Two, and it lands in her back; it makes her fingers go limp, and the lamp falls to her feet – but she is not down! She begins to turn in a hurried but sluggish fashion, and her hand is going for her bag of lawn darts. Dishrag snatches another scissor from her belt, and just as her new opponent draws out her dart, she sends the projectile into the air, into her victim’s shoulder. Two staggers, winces; but does she fall? No! She lifts her dart into the air, and tosses it. As it whizzes through the air, Dishrag yanks out another, mumbles the word “bitch” under her breath, and throws it again. This time, Two falls, and all that remains of the career pack is Sugary Freud, who is still locked in earnest battle with Pip Pippinson.
But what of Two’s final dart?
Allegedly, she had thrown it at Dishrag – and if that was her intention, then she had missed by a long shot. For it was not Dishrag who felt the dart’s sting, but rather, Cashmere O’Riley. Cashmere had been standing at an allegedly safe distance from the mouth of the Cornucopia with Solana, who had managed to reclaim her medical kit. And, in the moments of his murderess’s death, the victim dies also, with a dart lodged in his heart, supposedly before he can realize what has happened to him. He leaves behind Solana; she throws herself to her knees beside him, and snatches his fingers with one quivering hand and tears out the dart from his chest with her other. She lets go of both and rips medical supplies from her kit; she tries remedying the fatal wound – but it’s too late. It takes her several minutes to realize that. And once it settles in that her friend has died – she screams.
None of her other companions hear her; whether or not the sound of Sugary’s skull smashing into little pieces beneath Pip’s vacuum and the ecstatic cheering that followed drowns out her screams, I don’t know, but I know that I can hear it.
Digit looks down on the splattered remnants of Sugary’s head with a smile of satisfaction; he clutches his stomach as he declares: “Friends, it is finished! The Cornucopia is ours! All the others shall be piecemeal, compared to these arrogant low-brows whom we have vanquished!”
Gee, nice speech.
He turns to Dishrag, and caresses his smarting belly tenderly. “Many thanks for rescuing me there, Dishrag. I would be dead without you.”
Dishrag snickers, and her eyes gleam as she replies: “I wasn’t savin’ you, smart-ass – I was killing her.” She gestures to the District 2 female’s carcass with one of her scissors.
The retort snaps at a bit of Digit’s pleased grin, but it remains all the same. “Yes, yes, of course,” he chuckles, and turns from her. He notices Palanquin, who has remained in the same spot – in the same position – all throughout the rest of the fight. He grimaces as he eyes her over, and then looks at Pip. “Take Dishrag and scout around the plaza; make sure that no one’s lingering, all right?”
Pip nods dutifully, and with the stiffness of a military man, she leads Dishrag away from the Cornucopia, pushing her blood-stained vacuum cleaner before her. The wheels track two streaks of blood across the grass and flagstone as she does so.
Digit watches them leave, and then he takes up his lamp and then Palanquin’s hand, not cringing at the blood that has stained her fingers. He leads her away, and halts before Solana. The girl’s screams had died upon the sight of him, but the misery has not; she looks up at him, and the tears silently cascade, like slender waterfalls.
He stares at her, then at Cashmere; his frown compounds in size. He looks into her eyes, and he tells her: “Come on; the living need you.” Her nostrils flare for a moment as she sniffles, but she nods dully and grabs her kit and follows him as he leads them behind the Cornucopia, where there lie fewer carcasses. The two scouts return, having found no prey; they sit down, and Solana – the apparent nurse of the bunch – opens her kit and starts dressing wounds. Her fingers are precise, but the tears still stream, and her body moves in an absent fashion, as if there is no mind to connect to the muscles – as if she is a robot.
Later, they make camp; they watch as the hovercrafts creep in and pull the corpses from the ground and into the sky.
In the hotel, all is well, and the other surviving tributes have made themselves quite comfortable, mental or physical wounds aside. The hotel they now reside in is one of uttermost luxury, with marble staircases and the plushest velvet carpets known to man; all the beds are soft, from what I can tell by the people who are currently making use of them, and each gilded hallway has a flower arrangement whose flowers are vivid and – according to a remark the District 10 girl makes as she sniffs one – smells delightful. There are several fine hiding places, several opulent bathrooms, running water that is pure (as proven by a particularly thirsty District 7 tribute), and a dining room full of food which, too, is good for human consumption (the District 10 male got quite famished from all his fleeing and has proved it so to us).
As the day continues, we see the tributes adapting to their surroundings: Slug Lev finds a hiding place in the kitchen; Ayn Brookenford – sole survivor of all the careers - has taken refuge in a closet, and now sleeps in there; the District 9 male groans and staggers around the halls as he nurses the broken jaw Pip had given him back at the Bloodbath, until he finally decides to hide behind the front counter; the District 7 male hides in a stall in the men’s restroom; the District 10 male has decided to make camp beneath the table of the dining room that he had so happily taken advantage of; the District 10 female makes good use of one of the suites, and has showered and has taken on a new of clothes (which was provided by the hotel and had awaited her in the suite’s closet, along with several other outfits, all of which being this Games’ uniform).
The day ends. We are met with reruns of the tributes’ deaths, in order of placement. We then flick back to the tributes, to get their reactions of the faces that they had just seen in the sky, in order of the number of their district (such is the way that is done for those in the arena). At the cry of the anthem, Ayn stirs, and as she lifts her face to the ceiling (on which a projector flashes the faces of the fallen), her tired eyes do not show a flicker of emotion as she stares up at the countenance of Coral Reefer; several tributes murmur their surprise to find that most of the careers have perished already; Solana clenches her jaw as she sees the face of Mooney Crackers staring down at her from the sky, and then squeezes her eyes tightly shut before she can look up at Cashmere; Palanquin doesn’t look at the sky once – she only stares ahead of her; Dishrag snickers all the while atop her perch on the Cornucopia, on which she takes watch for her pack.
Digit makes one last comment before the new non-career pack goes to sleep: “Tomorrow, we hunt.”
Father: Jalopy Lev
Siblings: None
Other Significant: None.
Pets: He has adopted a little kitten named Hans to keep him company in his lonely Victor's Village.
District Partner: Palanquin Symmetry
Games Overview: (Just a warning: the way I've written it, it kinda feels like I'm kinda like God...I mean, in the sense that I'm writing in present tense, but I kinda know what's gonna happen in the future (at least, as far as various audience reactions and media responses go), so I guess that rather makes me omniscient...I dunno...I kinda like doing it that way, so I don't think I'll change it, unless I get a little too overbearing with it. :3 )
~{REAPING}~
Initially, the first two reapings are not but replays of what often transpires in the career districts. The escort cries out the names of the randomly chosen, and as the selected take their places on the stage, an eighteen-year-old career screams with such ferocity that one would have thought it is a battle-cry, “I volunteer!” The chosen tributes promptly relinquish their position to their respective usurper, who both proudly bound up to the stage with the lightest of step, and smirks at the crowd with such devilish delight that one might believe they are planning to slay everyone in the district. However, it is very common to see such hateful confidence in volunteered tributes from the districts of One and Two, and so no one – inside the district or otherwise – pays much notice to this.
Oddly enough, it isn’t till the reaping of little District 3 (of all places!) that some intrigue and originality is scraped from the barrel’s bottom. When the cameras flicker and become fixated on District Three’s square, the majority of those who watch – by instinct – reckon that the tributes will be as soft and weak as their predecessors have been; for there is some strange quirk about District Three, where everyone – including themselves – knows that their majority are all very smart and clever, and yet the District 3 residents seem to also own this strange bashfulness, as if this knowledge of their mental power strikes within them some strange fear of themselves that makes them weak and unconfident in themselves, and often turns out to be the reason behind their tributes’ downfall in the Games.
With a flourish of her hand, the graceful and airy escort of District 3 pulls free from the mass of paper the chosen slip, and unfolds it. “Pi-i-p Pippinson!” she cries, in her languid, song-like voice, which is as clear and soft and metallic as wind-chimes as they clatter and ding in a soft breeze. There is a hush, in which the cameras scan the area for the new recruit; they don’t have to search long, however: by her own accord, without the metaphysical nudging of a camera’s sight or the beckoning of the escort or the force of a Peacekeeper, Pip Pippinson steps into the pathway that bifurcates the girls from the boys, and makes her way up to the stage, her step hard and firm, as if she is marching rather than striding, and her slender body erect and stiff, and her head held high and confident. The camera locks onto her face the moment she’s free of the cluster of sixteen-year-old girls, noting how she looks like any other District 3 resident, with her face sharp and her skin ashen, and her braided hair being the color of coal, like the majority of girls in her district. However, immediately, the audience sees the difference between her and those who have come before her: there is a particular firmness to her mouth and tightness in her lips that shapes it into a very unsatisfied scowl, as if everything she has ever seen was poorly crafted or faulty in some way, but there is also a hawkishness in her eye that suggests that she is the sort of person who not only sees what is wrong, but also immediately barks out orders to make it right.
Once Pip steps beside her new escort, the delicate Capitolite draws out from the other bowl of paper slips, and reads in a declarative, but beautiful voice: “Di-i-i-igit McGurt!” With the same promptness of his district partner, a fourteen-year-old fellow strides up to his, his golden hair twisting and contorting around itself in a flurry of curls. His wiry body moves with the grace and pride of a cat, and there is calmness in his freckled face and clear blue eyes, as if he already has a strategy laid out, one that is full-proof, one that shall have him sent home in a blink of an eye. In many ways, he is like his district partner: the confidence, the command, the knowledge and proud acceptance of what he is, what is happening, and what he shall surely become, depending on how hard he tries; both of them are congenital leaders, in their assuredness and their strength. But there is one difference between the two: Pip has an air of demand around her, one that screams for respect, one that makes her look as strong and willing to commit cruelty much like a despot, but – like most despots – the respect is undeserved, for she demands it with her eyes; for young Digit McGurt, however, the respect comes naturally.
The screen flickers and blackens, and then flickers into color again; we are transported to a new district square: we are watching the reaping of District Four.
“Ayn Brookenford!” the District 4 escort declares. Instantaneously, as if she has just been cued rather than randomly selected, Ayn proceeds from her place in the sixteen-year-old female section, and approaches the stage. She is a little like the District 3 tributes, in some ways, in the strength of character that deepens and brightens her grass-colored eyes. She is a very husky, heavy-set girl; her body is athletic and bears a very slight masculine resemblance, and her appendages look quite firm and seem braced, as if she is already in the arena, before all those enemies. She moves with a great confidence, just as Pip and Digit had, but hers is a freer and looser sort, a sort that seems to laugh in mockery at all around her whilst she moves: the sort that is often accustomed to the confidence of the individual, one who needs not lead nor wants to lead, for she only requires herself to live, to exist. The camera’s gaze first lands upon her profile, one that is pretty and fair, and has a delicateness that is very incongruent to her husky figure, one that is more often imagined on princesses; however, as she takes her place on stage and she turns her face forward, towards the camera, any males who have been entranced into consideration of admiration by her airy profile immediately abandon the thought: her face is far more hawkish than Pip’s, one that is not demanding, but challenging and mocking, silently daring you to attempt to ascend into a higher level of being through means you just can’t physically or mentally attempt, and one that will surely cackle at you whilst you urgently deny her cruel order or fail utterly in the dare.
“Any volunteers?” the escort asks. There is a small pause, while the camera takes a gander at the crowd for a moment, and then flickers back onto Ayn as she stares down at her district, her mouth twitching, as if she is fighting back a smirk, and there is a glint of disdainful mockery in her eyes. For none dare to approach.
The supposed boy tribute is called up, and then a volunteer soon proffers and replaces him; when the escort asks them to shake hands, the new district partner cordially offers it to Ayn. All she does is wrinkle her nose at him.
In the blink of an eye, the audience of the reaping recaps finds themselves hovering over District Five, where the only twelve-year-old for the Games is reaped: Solana Reed, a thin, pretty little thing with ginger hair that drapes over her shoulders like reddish brown curtains. She stands with her tiny body stiff and her icy eyes are currently glazed over and blank from the shock of being called as a tribute. Her district partner, Mooney Crackers, is called, and up he comes; he is a gangly, tall boy whose lanky form promptly bends over when his name is declared, as if a ton of lead has been set upon his shoulders, and – in the same subdued manner - he trudges to stand beside little Solana.
And so, we are whisked to District Six. The escort moves about the stage in a tottering fashion, staggering and rocking about, his legs limp and practically useless beneath his weight. He totters up to the girls’ bowl, and lifts his arm upward; his forearm dangles listlessly in the air, and he lowers it gingerly into the bowl, and he moves his hand about by shifting his elbow around, as if there are no bones in his wrist. In a moment’s time, he lifts his hand out from the bowl, and flourishes it for a moment, to show the camera the paper slip that he holds between his fingers. He lowers it then, and pries it open; his voice is sleepy and crackly as he reads: “Palanquin Symmetry.”
The only thing that moves is the camera, as it swoops around in the air, searching for a flicker of life, of acknowledgement; nothing human in the square dares to move, maybe even to breathe. The escort sways from one side to the other; his eyes squint as his gaze sweeps over the crowd of district residents, but finding nothing but skin-clad statues, he calls out again, with a quavering hint of uncertainty: “Palanquin Symmetry?” He pauses; repetition does nothing to break the collective immobility; he shifts from one foot to the other, whilst his small mouth contorts slowly in uncertainty, and he asks the microphone: “Is she not here?”
Finally, there is a shift in the stillness; a broad-shouldered, firmly built girl of eighteen fidgets and wiggles, as a sleeping fellow might stir as he is drawn into awakening, and then scoots out of the crowd of peers, and steps into the bifurcating path. Her face is very homely, with her broad, flat nose and large, indelicate mouth, and still gray eyes and her scraggly mop of blond hair whose thin bangs fall lazily into her eyes. Like Mooney Crackers of District Five, her shoulders are also bent forward, but she wears the position with a more comfortable air than Mooney did, as if they are perpetually hunched and her bones are very much used to being held in this way. She trudges up to the stage with her fat mouth set into a sagging frown, and her glassy eyes showing a very slight glimmer of stunned melancholy.
Once Palanquin takes her place on stage, the escort totters and rocks and sways over to the boy’s bowl, and sticks his hand into it in the same way he had when he reaped Palanquin. He lifts it up lazily, and lifts it up for the camera to see in a slothy, tired fashion, as if some great weariness has made him forget how important this day is to the nation of Panem. His thumbs pull it open in the same manner, the joints moving in a mechanical fashion, as if only instinct is driving his body into a state of motion; his drooping eyelids press together once in a slow, sloth-like blink, and his voice becomes broad and stupid as he reads, becoming more like a yawn than a declaration: “SluuuuuuuUUUUUUUUUUUuug…Leev…”
As if in a decisive agreement that there will no longer be any collective bouts of immobility, all of the boys begin to shift and to turn and to move, looking around themselves, trying to see who the chosen one is. From what one can see, only an individual figure dares not to move, and, indeed, remains so stiff that one might believe a statue has been set there, amongst all those movers. Then, gradually, as if some wandering spirit is stepping into that lone statue and is taking possession of it, he begins to move, weaving around the other boys, who soon notice him, and as one body turn to watch him leave their ranks. He extends a thin, diminutive leg into the path, and lowers his foot onto the dirt; it then seems to rather drag his body out of the collective, as if that particular leg is the only thing capable of movement, while the rest of his body is now only deadweight – a little less than a hundred pounds of useless meat and bones. It takes a few heartbeats, but after a spell, he is free from the collective; he pauses for a moment, his legs spread apart, and looks about him with the quick urgency of a prey animal as it sniffs about for the scent of a predator. He turns his head around again, towards the stage, towards the camera; his lower jaw is hanging open, and his flanks heave with every gasp of air; his face has paled, and his eyes are as wide as saucers, and his fists have begun to tremble, as if only now has it occurred to him what he is in, what he is facing.
It’s evident to the audience that fright has enthralled him; he can’t move – at least, he isn’t moving. However, it is not this panic that the audience, at this time, cares about, for it is per the norm for new tributes to know a paralyzing fear during their reaping. Rather, it is his height that they notice, and it will be his height that the magazines in the Capitol will be joking and raving about in their articles during prep week. For he is probably one of the shortest tributes that decade of Hunger Games has ever seen and will ever see (at least, for his age group, anyway); by judgment of recollection, he is only an inch taller than little Solana Reed, the little twelve-year-old from District Five – yet, it was from the group of fifteen-year-old boys that he stepped out from! Indeed, if it had not been for the fortune of the camera being positioned at a certain angle, he might not have been noticed at all, behind the towering bodies of his peers.
Suddenly, the fear leaves Slug Lev; his body becomes erect, and his eyebrows rise high over his eyes, and he tilts his head slightly backwards, as if he is trying to peer at something in the distance. His mouth begins to contort quickly, shaping words but not uttering them, and he proceeds to the stage with his body leaning forward with a decisive air. He does not stop his silent mantra once in his walk to the stage (and it is, indeed, a mantra, for one can tell by the way his mouth moves that he is mouthing the same words over and over); it seems to be the only thing keeping his legs moving, in some ways. There is an air in the way his mouth forms the hushed words, one that is of respect and delicateness and reliance, as if he is praying; there is also a determination cocktailed in this honoring of his, one that also seems to give his mouthed mantra such a ferocity and power that it is a battle cry, also.
He marches up the stairs, and crosses over to the escort; in sudden unison, his mouth and feet stop moving, and he is perfectly still. The escort (who was facing Slug whilst he was approaching her) turns toward his microphone, and gestures with an indolent, half-hearted flick of his hands at his new wards. He manages to squeeze some energy into his voice as announces: “Alright, Panem – here they are – District Six’s new tributes: Palanquin Symmetry and Slug Lev!”
The screen flickers again, the scene magically transmogrifying to the district square at District Seven, where the male and female tributes are thereby extracted. Then, we are transferred to District Eight; the lively, flamboyant escort* bounces towards the girl’s bowl rather in the manner of songbirds when they traverses land, and with one jerk she thrusts her tie-dyed hand into the bowl and swings it back out, a piece of paper held tightly in her colorful claws. It is opened; a name is squealed into the microphone: “Dishrag Kelly!”
The majority of the audience members who are not of District 8 origin are probably all sputtering in unison at this moment, for the girl’s name is very rare and very unpopular and considered particularly silly and misfortunate to have, even amongst District 8 residents, who all know that the name exists, but have very rarely met anyone under the title of “Dishrag”. However, the tragic name compounds in hilarity once the poorly christened girl takes her place on stage, for –as it turns out – by the way of appearance and mien, Dishrag Kelly truly lives up to her name. She is more like a hyena than a human, with her flat, rising forehead, and a long, rather broad face with a sharp, jutting chin, with a thin mouth that stretches from one side of her face to the other, and her large, round ears that flare from the side of her head. She has only washed her appendages this morning, apparently, letting it be known that her skin is, naturally, of a bronze-dyed pigment; Dishrag’s hyena-like face, on the other hand, has been unfortunately overlooked and ignored by its keeper, and has a very large, black stain upon her round, yet broad nose (which currently looks more like a giant, black blemish upon her face), as if she has taken a stone of coal to it.
Below the face lies the body, the only thing that is truly attractive about it, for it is long and slender and incongruently feminine; the limbs that sprout from it, however, are long and loosely built, and the arms are longer than the legs, and this trait adds to the awkwardness of her body. She runs her lanky fingers through her uncombed, wild, jutting hair of black-speckled brown in jerks, yanking her hand downward and then upward, whilst her fingernails scrape along the skin of her skull. Then, she flings her hand down, and thrusts her chin outward; a very long, thin smile crawls upon her face, her slender lips creeping beneath her teeth, uncovering them. The corners of her mouth push the flesh of her cheeks upward, into one pile of flesh that seems to make her eyes curve upward and become arch-shaped. It is an unruly, ugly grin, one that holds such devilishness and naughtiness that, instantaneously, she becomes a hated character in the Games.
The vibrant escort’s mouth yanks into what is clearly meant as an attempt at a cordial smile of welcome; Dishrag does not notice it – the seventeen-year-old hyena-child just keeps grinning at the crowd, her distasteful smile still. The escort fidgets, and the effort at friendship is preempted by a slightly frightened, almost distraught grimace. However, once she turns her back on her new female ward, her happy-go-lucky attitude seems to take over once more, forcing her grimace into a youthful, cheery grin, and she skips up to the boy’s bowl, and declares District Eight’s male tribute, Cashmere O’Riley, a blanche boy of thirteen (who – as some shall comment later – is noticeably taller than the District 6 male tribute). The camera flicks from the approaching Cashmere to the face of Dishrag, for an interesting change has come over Dishrag now, in the way her swarthy eyes now gleam, one that adds to her hyena complexion: for, as she watches her new district partner walk up, she currently eyes him with a sadistic lust, like a starved hyena as it hastily bustles up to a festering zebra.
After the congratulatory made by the escort, the camera leaps out from District Eight, and barges into District Nine; then Ten; then Eleven; and then, finally, Twelve, which is promptly succeeded by a parade of colorful and optimistic mixing of commercials and vigorously nationalistic propaganda. No need to watch the television anymore; the reaping recaps will be stayed for the rest of the night, until morning comes. The tributes have now all boarded their trains; the arrival of the District 1 tributes – the district closest to the Capitol, and thus almost always the first to arrive, unless some special and dire event transpires – has been scheduled at noon. They won’t be in the chariots till gloaming time, and they won’t be launched till nightfall. Until then, all there is left for us to do is wait.
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*I would have loved to have put Hospes as the District 8 escort for this bio, but, alas, Hospes wasn't even thinking of becoming an escort at around this time, and thus I had to deal with one of his predecessors instead. :/ Not as fun, I hate to say.
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~{OPENING CEREMONIES}-
All across Panem, every single television that is still in workable condition flickers to life, with no human hands to reach for their respective panels and turn it on. For somewhere, squirreled away in the bowls of some government building, a man has just nudged a button that is linked to all of these television sets, all throughout this country of ours, controlling them, turning them on and setting them to whatever public network that the president has set his mandatory show on, whether it be propaganda or news of the most dire sort or some triumphant increase in agricultural products and the like; for when viewing becomes mandatory, it is, in consequence, an absolute mandatory viewing – you have no choice in the matter, and you will never, ever escape it, for there are televisions everywhere, in the homes, in the stores, in the plazas; it is inescapable and of a far higher power than yours.
Today, the absolutely mandatory viewing will be the Opening Ceremonies. Upon the screen is a white desk, and behind the desk is a pair of colorfully dressed people: the airy interviewer and the husky, square-chinned announcer of the Games, whose smile makes his face crinkle up and become almost impish; behind them stretches a screen, one that has been ornately and cleverly crafted to look more like a window, and upon the screen lies a long, gray road that stretches from the very bottom of the screen and towards what is clearly the training center, whose architecture is stately and stern at the same time. The announcer of the Hunger Games promptly draws our attention from the screen by flashing a genuine, friendly grin at us, and declaring: “Well, well, well! Here we are, folks! The Opening Ceremonies to the Fifteenth Annual Hunger Games!”
The interviewer chuckles and a small, polite, but childlike smile brightens her lovely face. “Fifteenth anniversary already,” she murmurs, as her small head bobs up and down in a methodical, thoughtful fashion. She turns her bright, smiling eyes toward the announcer, and comments: “You know, Claudio, it’s strange – it feels like the fifteenth year of the Games, and yet I can’t help but think that this ought to be the Second Hunger Games, not the Fifteenth.”
One strong, baritone laugh booms from the announcer Claudio, and his voice becomes slightly coquettish, yet also thoughtful: “Time flies fast, eh? And to think, we’re halfway towards the country’s first Quarter Quell.”
The interviewer’s eyes and mouth become round and very opened. “Already?! Goodness! Another fifteen years and…”
Claudio snickers like a naughty schoolboy. “Yup! Can you believe it?” Before she can affirm or deny his query, he whips himself around in his chair, so he can turn his head to look at the screen behind him; he only gives it a glance, before he twirls his body around again to grin a very youthful, almost boyish smile at the camera, and declares: “Here it comes, ladies and germs! The Opening Ceremonies of the Fifteenth Hunger Games – will start in…”
With no cue, no hints, the interviewer takes up the countdown with her companion almost instinctively; they declare the numbers with a great, hearty, happy vigor, one that has a vague coarseness and primitiveness to it, as if the series of numerals is actually a war chant: “Five!...Four!...Three!...Two!...ONE!”
In the blink of an eye, every television screen beholds the large, mammoth doors that bifurcates the street from the chariot launch room burst open, in a triumphant, heroic manner, as if the purpose for this night is not to honor the punishments of war, but, rather, the return of a hero of war. One can see a very small slither of the crowd proceed to leap upward and downward, their arms parallel lines that stretch over their heads, as if they are trying to hold up the sky; and, as they bounce and cheer, they become a colorful, vibrant, roiling, throbbing rainbow – a perfect backdrop for the emergence of the tributes. In a matter of seconds, the District 1 tributes are towed into the vivid eyes of the Capitol, their snow white mares moving at a brisk, yet easy pace. The children they carry ride a gilded chariot, with their district seal emblazed on its face and flanks in a glistening silver; the chariot’s passengers wear matching colors, with their particularly swanky blazers and dress shirts and bottoms (which are both equally very swanky and smooth, but are varied in terms of forms of bottoms, in accordance to the wearer’s sex) being a very bright, golden-colored thread, and their dress shoes and driving gloves and neckties and toppers (the male wears a particularly stylish fedora, while his counterpart has a hat born from 1930s nostalgia that curves closely around her cranium) are silver in appearance, and each article of clothing is sprinkled conservatively with glitter that glints like stars as the bright lights of the Capitol hit them. The glitter has also been packed – in the same restrictive manner – into their flesh, and they sparkle like a duo of vampires
“Here it is, folks!” Claudio’s booming, bright, delighted voice is heard as the camera follows the District 1 tributes. “The initiation of the Fifteenth Hunger Games! And we are off to a shining-”
“I figured he was going to say something like that,” the interviewer’s feminine, silky voice interjects, in a very matter-of-fact, flat way.
Claudio does not skip a beat: “-start by District One’s very own Chant Singing and Sugary Freud!”
Our attention is turned from District 1 to Two as the next duo rolls into the street, wearing a uniform that is very reminiscent to the older population of a Peacekeeper uniform during the Dark Days (as an ode to District Two’s beloved savagery in combat), only quite snugger and built more for looks than for war, and the tributes wear their defanged Peacekeeper uniforms with austere pride, keeping their eyes turned straight ahead, not once flickering at their comrade or the crowd that cheers and screams for them. Afterwards come Pip Pippinson and Digit McGurt, donned in a very futuristic, and personally quite trippy outfit: they make their appearance in silvery spandex suits with neon jewelry that radiates a bright green aura around them, making their faces appear human in shape, but stereotypically Martian in color, and their silvery spandex basks in the eerie glow, becoming dyed by it, going from silver to greenish. There are also neon lights running across the top of the chariot, and also encircling the District 3 insignia that is worn proudly on either side of the chariot.
“We’re getting very lit up here!” Claudio remarks with an eager, silly chuckle. “Next up – next up…District Four! Everyone, give a big appendage for Coral Reefer and Ayn Brookenford!”
The grayish horses that are in charge of Ayn and Coral’s delivery march dutifully into the open, their lovely heads held high and proud as they ignore completely the sharp human cries; their charges are dressed with the intention of paying homage to the coral reefs, with their bodies respectively covered by a long, flowing robe with splotches and stripes and dots of vibrant, bright colors, ranging from tangerine to gold to neon pink to a deep scarlet set atop a light blue background, and respectively seated atop their heads is a crown of coral and shells. Perched atop their chariot is a fake sea anemone that would be quite convincing for people who had only seen anemones in pictures. Coral waves his arm at the crowd as if it is a flag, proudly and blatantly and with no sense of shame, and there is a knowing smirk on his face that gives it a very impish air to it. Ayn doesn’t do a thing; her eyes are glazed over, her face is still, her lips are pressed tight together, and her eyelids are sagging – it’s as if she’s completely oblivious of what is going on around her. She looks at the crowd on the right with a distant, aloof, indifferent stare, as if she is not looking at them, but rather, some conjuration of her own thoughts. She has her fingers curled about the top of the chariot, and she sets some of her weight on them; occasionally, she lets one set of fingers release their hold on the chariot and bat lightly at the fake sea anemone, as a cat might idly prod a toy with its paw.
Behind them follows Solana Reed and Mooney Crackers, who have been dressed up in tight-fitting, white clothes as a tribute to wind energy, and they are crowned with porcelain-colored beanies whose “propellers” are made to look like the wheels of a turbine, and the propellers spin in the same lackadaisical, bored manner of windmills. Next to appear is Slug Lev and Palanquin Symmetry, in overalls and conductor’s hats and handkerchiefs, all of which are made to look as if they are of metallic origin, not of fabric (which is actually not so, as one may see in the way their clothes bend and crease). When they first emerge from the launch room, their reactions are much like how they responded to their reaping; the shock shows clearly on their faces, as they stare at the crowd that is the nearest to them – but this does not appear to be a shock that emerges from fear; instead, this is a shock of unknowing, of not understanding what is before them, or how they are supposed to react to it. This shock makes them still for only a heartbeat; then, gradually, the corners of Slug’s lips drag themselves upward, and his lips begin to part, until his mouth has taken the shape of utter delight. His body begins to quiver, but this movement is not fear: it is a product of laughter, of mirth; and in one great explosion of movement, his arm flies from his shuddering flank, and he flourishes it at the crowd happily, cordially, his eyes sparkling in pure joy, as if he has discovered a fantasyland.
Suddenly, we are transported to the room where our lovely Hunger Games interviewer and her compatriot, Claudio the Announcer, have their bodies turned in their chairs, so they may watch the screen, which currently showcases the camera angle and scene that we have just been swept away from. Claudio snickers in his youthful, schoolboyish, but still somehow manly chortle, as he remarks: “He looks happy.”
“Oh!” cries the interviewer, with her arms having bent and the bottoms of her forearms pressing tightly to her sides, and her fists are now curled. “Oh, yes! Isn’t it wonderful, Claudio! All that spirit! All that energy! That – that, my dearest friend” (one of her fist suddenly shoots out as she now speaks, towards the screen, and her index fingers unfurls, becoming directed at Slug’s face) “is the epitome of the Hunger Games spirit! Oh! Oh, simply look at it!”
“I’m lookin’ at it, I’m lookin’ at it!” Claudio snickers; his thin grin stretches across his face till it practically shuts his eyes closed.
“I’m serious! I’m serious!” she cries, as she lowers her arm, and touches her cheek with her hand. “Oh, Claudio, why can’t all tributes be as spirited as that?”
We are then flicked back onto that wide, sprawling street of the Capitol, directly before the District 6 tributes, just in time to see Palanquin’s paradoxical reaction. Instead of bursting into a flurry of waving arms, she cringes back, and shrinks downward, her back and knees bending forward, as if she intends to duck down behind the façade of the chariot. Slug’s eyes dart to his peripherals and his smile diminishes only slightly when he notices his partner’s fright. He turns his face towards her, and reaches out with one hand (whilst its mate waves) and pinches the sleeve of the long, puffy sleeved shirt she had been made to wear between his thumb and forefinger, and gives it a very gentle tug. His lips are seen moving, but the crowd is too cacophonous for him to be heard by the microphones; however, those who are capable of reading lips can see that he is urging her to wave with him, with the assurance that waving is quite rather fun. Palanquin only glances at him, her glassy eyes showing the same panic as a caged wild animal, and she sinks lower, till her body is concealed by the chariot. Slug’s smile shrinks into a small frown, and his eyebrows have raised a little, and he reaches down to give her a comforting touch, presumably on the head; a disembodied sigh of sympathy is heard from the interviewer.
Next come the District 7 tributes, who have been dressed up as trees, and then the District 8 tributes, Dishrag Kelly and young Cashmere O’Riley. They are dressed in white togas that wrap around their bodies and flare into long, slim skirts at the legs, and there is a slender, short curtain of silken fabric attached, with the intentions that the tributes would be holding them up and permitting it to drape over their arms. However, since they made their appearance, only Cashmere does that; Dishrag permits hers to dangle at her side, while she scratches at her face which has been smeared by white powder, in a hurried and urgent attempt to offset her hyena-like grotesqueness. Her eyes are dark and narrowed, and her lips twist and contort angrily as she spits out muffled protests; these protests are presumed to be profanities, as Cashmere very often glances at her from the corner of his eye in a very wary, but also stunned way, and the corners of his mouth promptly thrusts downward, becoming a slightly irritated but mostly worried scowl, as if he’s fretting that those profanities are actually witchy curses meant to hinder his ability to breathe or think.
Next comes the District 9 chariot, then Ten, and et cetera; the camera follows them as they parade through the Capitol, the crowd perpetually roaring their ecstasy, not becoming hushed till the chariots file one by one into the half-circle shaped plaza that stands before the training center, and then fan out in a C-formation. The president of Panem is perched atop a veranda, calm and stately as ever, his body straight and his face austere and his eyes condescending, and his fingers curling into his coat pocket. He looks down on the tributes, his mouth heavy and firm and grim, like a judge’s; his voice resonates all throughout the square, and initially, the majority of the tributes pay him attention – all except for Dishrag, who is too busy scratching at her makeup to care about the demands of the superior. “Welcome, tributes!” he bellows; and promptly, Ayn turns her face down from him, and becomes more intrigued in the horses ahead of her chariot than in her president. “I congratulate you on your being awarded this highest of titles…” As the camera creeps over to the District 6 chariot, one may notice Slug’s eyes flickering away from the president, his gaze roaming seemingly in the direction of the District 4 chariot, before suddenly jerking back to his leader; however, the majority of the audience are too distracted by Palanquin, who is slowly lifting herself off the floor of her chariot, to notice this. “…and I commend you on your bravery, during this greatest of sacrifices. Good luck, tributes, in the days to come – and may you all have a very happy Hunger Games…and may your odds…be forever in your favor.” A wave of clapping and whistling and cheering surges from the crowd, crushing any attempt at noise that bears no relevance to the president’s speech, and the live audience leaps up and down in such a fervent, respectful, subservient manner that their bounces might as well be bows. The president pays them no heed; his body turns around in a sweeping movement, and he leaves the veranda with neither a goodbye nor a passing glance.
We look through the eyes of a camera that is positioned behind the chariots, at the very mouth of the plaza from which the tributes had entered through, and we last see them being towed into the long, rectangular, yawning mouth of the training center, where the chariots always pass into, every year. As they move across the plaza, the horses quickly rearrange themselves until the chariots have taken a horizontal formation, and they all disappear into the training center simultaneously.
Before we can blink our eyes, we find ourselves teleported back to the little room where the feminine interviewer and Claudio the Announcer beam at us winsomely, as if we are old friends of theirs. “So ends another spectacular Opening Ceremonies, folks!” says Claudio, as he taps the desk with his fingertips for emphasis. He turns to the interviewer, and in a very smooth, dignified tone of voice, he says: “You know, I wouldn’t call that the best – exactly – Opening Ceremonies I’ve ever seen-”
“Right,” the interviewer murmurs her agreement, as her head moves up and down as if she was a bobble-head.
“-it kinda fizzled out at the end, personally-”
“Right.”
“-at least for me, anyway. But it certainly wasn’t boring, either.” He proceeds to gesture with his hands, as he continues: “It started off strong – it went on, for quite a while, pretty strong – but just as we kept going down the districts – it just kinda…the costumes were…”
“Unimaginative?” the interviewer says, her voice polite and soft.
“Uh – uh, yeah! Yeah – something like that.” He shrugs his shoulders. “I’d like to go on, but…”
The interviewer’s mouth spreads into a wide, open, cheerful grin, and she giggles a little, her laugh bright, more like the laughter of a girl than a woman. She sets her thin, white hand on his shoulder, and gives him a gentle nudge. “We’ll have time to analyze the Opening Ceremonies tomorrow, Claudio,” she reassures, and her head suddenly snaps around, so she’s now smiling at the camera. “And you make sure to be there, too! We’ll be discussing the chariots and interviewing the Gamemakers about what they’ll be expecting from this year’s tributes, so make certain you tune in tomorrow, three-thirty in the afternoon, at the same station!” Her hand flits off of Claudio’s shoulder as daintily as a butterfly alights into the air, and her fingers flick up and down in a gesture of farewell, as she giggles at the camera: “See yah then, everybody! Oh, and happy Hunger Games…”
They glance at each other from the corners of their eyes, and their grins instantaneously grow in size, as they’re remembering an inside joke; Claudio then harmonizes with her in the blessing: “…and may the odds be ever in your favor!”
Without any hint or gesture of us willing it to, the television screen – and a million others like it, all over Panem – blackens.
~{PRIVATE TRAINING SCORES}~
For the past few days, our television has shown nothing on its screen but a square, opaque void, and until today, there has been no reason for it to be otherwise, for there has been nothing important to watch. None of the interviews or discussions on the Games are mandatory; they are just simply there for the impatient members of society, so stimulated by the Hunger Games that they require sustenance to fill in the gaps of depravity during this three day long waiting period. We are not those people, however; thus, the television screen’s only purpose till the private training scores are revealed is to act as a black mirror, reflecting the living room and its denizens.
In all the bars that act as hubs for the sponsors, there is a large television that expands from the top-right corner of a wall and to the wall’s lower-left corner. On this television is the board of ratios for each tribute’s likelihood of survival; initially, it had been set in descending order of districts, starting with the District 1 male, and then ending with District 12 female. Now, however, it has flickered and switched on an hourly basis (unless the Gamemakers have decided that there is no need to change it, for it is by their observations during prep week that they determine it), and now the order is like this: Ayn Brookenford, District Four; curiously, Dishrag Kelly of District Eight; then all the other careers, the least likely to survive out of the entire pack being Coral Reefer of District Four, who is the “seventh most likely to survive”; then there is Pip Pippinson, followed by her district partner; Slug Lev of District Six; the District 10 tributes are bifurcated by the District 7 male; Cashmere O’Riley of District 8 lies below the District 10 male; the District 9 tributes; Mooney Crackers of District 5 surpasses Palanquin Symmetry of District 6 by only a little; the younger tributes have been rather fighting for the right of being the “nineteenth most likely to survive”, one flicking above the other, the longest either holding the position being Solana Reed, who, on the second day of the three-day period of training for our tributes, held the position for at least three hours, till Cashmere O’Riley somehow managed to snatch it from her. However, it is Solana Reed who will be the triumphant one, for the hourly changing of survival margins and ratios will be ended on the day of the private training scores’ announcement, and Solana has managed to usurp Cashmere’s position in the nick of time. Below Cashmere O’Riley is the District 7 female, and then there are the outline districts (excluding Nine and Ten, obviously), whose chances of surviving the Games have not moved once during the trio of training days.
But these ratios and chances are only hypotheses; things meant to attempt in the revival of a family’s cadaverous hopes (though, personally, I doubt any of the people in the districts actually pay close attention to that board). The same goes for these private training scores we are about to watch; they are not certainties: they are just attempts at consolation that most likely don’t succeed.
The ebony void of our television blinks into life as we settle onto the sofa, and becomes a window set directly atop a black desk, where the lovely interviewer sits, her slender fingers lifting up a leaf of paper, which presumably contains the tribute’s scores. Behind her, a short distance from her shoulder, stands a grayish screen that’s thinner than the paper the interviewer holds, and currently, whilst the screen is blank, it looks more like a filmy window than a screen. The interview’s thin, delicate mouth that has been painted black for the occasion curves upward, becoming a polite, yet warm smile, and she speaks: “Good afternoon, Panem! The time has come once again to read off the private training scores that our Gamemakers have so carefully prescribed! Now, then, starting with Sugary Freud of District One…” Upon the screen, Sugary Freud’s face appears, and as the interviewer breathes the respectably high number, one can see it wink onto the screen, starting off small, but as it grows and grows it gyrates, until it is as large as Sugary Freud’s face; the interviewer gives us enough time to process this, before Sugary Freud and his ranking melt away, and are replaced by Sugary’s compatriot, and later, her own score. This sudden appearance of the tribute’s face and neck and shoulders, as well as the growing and rotating of their respective scores, and then both the child and the number melting into nothingness is a process that will loop perpetually, until the interviewer has concluded with the announcement of the District 12 female’s score (who shall be the last of the tributes).
“Digit McGurt from District Three, with a score of five; Pip Pippinson from District Three, with a score of nine;” (Any numbers that are above six she reads with a gentle emphasis; those of double digits are said as interjections and with a very pleased grin.) “Coral Reefer from District Four, with a score of six; Ayn Brookenford from District 4 with a score of eleven! Mooney Crackers from District Five with a score of two; Solana Reed from District Five with a score of seven; Slug Lev from District Six with a score of eight; Palanquin Symmetry from District Six with a score of three…” She then reads the District 7 tributes’ individual scores. “…Cashmere O’Riley from District 8 with a score of four; Dishrag Kelly from District Eight, with a score of ten!” She reads the District 9 tributes’ scores, which are rather neither bad nor outstanding, and then the District 10 tributes, who co-own a surprisingly high score (in comparison to the majority of their predecessors), and then the District 11 and 12 tributes’ numbers, who are – as usual – very low and mediocre.
The camera permits the face and number of the District 12 female on the screen to fade into air, and the interviewer to set her paper on the desk, before it closes its portal-like eye, and the television becomes opaque. Tomorrow, at nine in the evening, it will switch on again by some hand that is not our own, and the tributes will be interviewed for the last official day of prep week, the last time we will see all the tributes alive and together, and then – the initiation of the Fifteenth Annual Hunger Games shall proceed at last.
~{TRIBUTE INTERVIEWS}~
The old clock on the wall announces the coming of nine o’clock with an abrupt, brassy bong; almost immediately afterwards, the television screen flickers from black to bright and beautiful and colorful, as we are transported to the interview stage, where neon screens float over the opaque stage. Our interviewer rests on an egg-shell white chair that stands a foot apart from its mate. Claudio the Announcer’s voice rings all around as he announces the interviewer, his voice grand and energetic, and these two qualities are compounded by the triumphant and rising cry of trumpets in the background. As her name booms all around, her small lips curve into a wide smile that has this strange, attractive flavor of aloofness, and the grin seems to stand as proof that she is an enigma, not be touched, not to be understood, only to be seen and heard. When the screen flickered on, she had her thin, cabaret-readied legs twisted around each other; presently, she quickly but not urgently unfolds them, and she lifts herself from the chair, and strides away from it. She lifts her arm into the air, and spreads her finger apart in welcome to the audience, who all beat their palms together rapidly and eagerly as a response. Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah hah haah, welcome, welcome friends, welcome!” she giggles. “We meet again, we meet again! Oh, here it is at last, folks, the last day of prep week – the day that we finally get a chance to truly meet the tributes intimately! The Tribute Interviews! Ooooooooooooh, aren’t we going to have such a delightful time tonight!”
The live audience cheers and claps happily as a promise that they are going to find the interviews absolutely splendid. The interview presses her fingertips to her lips and giggles almost knowingly, and as she does so she moves backward, until she is directly in front of her chair, and she practically falls into it limply, and lays her folded arm atop its arm. “Very well then, let’s get started!” she cheers. “Folks, I’d like you all to give a big, warm hand…” For the sake of emphasis she pauses, and she suddenly twists her body around and throws her arm outward. “…for Chant!”
In the minutes that come, the District 1 and 2 tributes have only proven one thing about them: they are absolutely cookie-cutter. There is no true personality behind them; they have shown themselves as arrogant, as ruthless, and nothing beyond that. Their escorts and mentors have advised them terribly, and their interviews are particularly boring. Some hope sparks within me, however, when Pip marches onto the stage, wearing a short dress of smoky grey velvet whose skirt does not come to her knees and, over heart, bears the emblem of District 3 that has been crafted from neon tubes, and her feet is shod with these jet black combat boots. It’s sort of interesting to look at, when you think about it: “cute cosmic cheerleader” (an air that the dress bears to my eyes, with its neon adornment and sleekness of fabric and shortness of skirt) with some military flair. It suits her well: for the dress and the makeup that has been dabbed onto her face brings some youthfulness into her hawkish countenance, and reveals to us a prettiness that had been too subtle previously, but is now being drawn out; however, in the way she moves and the fact that she wears such masculine footwear is a reminder to us all that she is of a ferocious, demanding nature, one that is not to be tried with for any occasion. She sits down in the chair opposite to the interviewer very stiffly, and gives the audience a quick scowl as she does so.
“Well, well, well, Pip!” the interviewer chuckles. “Are you ready for the Games? You certainly look as if you are! If I may say so, it looks as if you’re ready for anything!”
Pip turns her body away from audience and looks directly at the interviewer, as if she’s the only one in the city square. “I’d say so too,” she says very curtly, and her interview goes in the same manner, with only the most pertinent things being spoken. When questioned about her family, she merely shrugs, and replies very flatly, as if she is speaking about strangers, “I’ve a mother and a father. That’s all I’ve got, in terms of relations, aside from a few stray uncles that we barely keep in touch with.”
“Do you miss any of them?” the interview inquires very gently and softly.
Pip is very flat and forthright and ruthless: “No. Why?”
After such a cold (if not interesting) performance by Pip, it is rather nice and warming, as calm Digit McGurt walks onto the stage, and gives the audience a small, polite, but friendly smile, as a host might grin to the guests of his luxurious cocktail party. He sits beside the interviewer and becomes quite relaxed in his chair, but there remains a very subtle, but still noticeable dignity in the boy’s manners, in the way he holds himself, in the way he moves and speaks. His voice is a very languid one; it is a drawl that moves airily and sloth-like, as a spoiled aristocrat’s son might speak, but he speaks with so much more wisdom and intelligence than any old spoiled rich fellow’s brat might, and unlike the stereotypical aristocratic progeny, he is far more susceptible to wit, often of the self-deprecatory sort, which both the audience and the interviewer often speak out against, but Digit merely shrugs his shoulders slightly, and continues on with their conversation as if nothing has happened.
Once their fifteen minutes together are up, interviewer and tribute stand up in unison, and Digit reaches for the interviewer’s hand and bends down to give her fingers a very light, polite, reverent kiss on the fingers, to which the audience claps in admiration to his austere, but somehow affectionate gentlemanliness. However, before the audience can stop themselves from clapping, Ayn Brookenford of District 4 suddenly marches onto the stage, makes a bee-line for Digit (who is just pulling his body erect after his small, gentlemanly kiss), and gives him a very pointed-looking tap on his shoulder blade with her knuckles. Digit jolts forward slightly, and twists his body around to look at her; they pause for a moment, eyes meeting, and then Ayn points over her shoulder with her thumb, and across her fierce countenance stretches a thin, irritated scowl. Digit scowls as well, but his mouth curves downward far more gracefully and with much more dignity than Ayn; he lowers the interviewer’s hand back to her side, releases it, and withdraws, with his head held high and with no regrets.
Ayn flops onto the chair where the tributes are designated to sit in, and lifts her face up to the interviewer and wrinkles her nose at her contemptibly, as if she has suddenly become a member of a dominant race in comparison to the interviewer and Ayn is not very likely to forget it. Ayn’s stylist seems to have been very much inspired by coral this year; the girl wears a coral pink dress of what appears to be of the mermaid style, with the slender, tight, long bodice that stretches down to about the knees, where it suddenly poofs into a fluffy, lacey skirt. A belt that appears to be made entirely out of small shells hugs her hips. Curling around her scalp is a headdress of what looks to be barnacles that each have one small diamondesque object wedged into each one, and these “diamonds” (it’s hard to tell if they’re real or not) snatch the lights of the stage and claim it as their own, wearing the illumination to make them sparkle like tiny stars. She lifts up one of her athletic legs, and lets it drape over the other, and in doing so, the camera can now permit us to take a glance at her shoes: she is shod in high heels (that she has no trouble walking in, by the bye) that are of neon orange in colors, and the heels have been shaped to look very similar to the sea anemone, with only a far more slender column; but aside from the skinny sea anemone, the attempt is still very clear and rather admirable, in the way the trunk has been speckled and the fact that it looks very fleshy and squishy, much like a sea anemone, and the flaring tentacles that sprout at the part where the heel connected to the shoe, which wiggle and flicker every time Ayn moves her feet.
The interviewer seems to not heed the arrogant intent behind Ayn’s sneer, and only looks down at the younger female with very kind, warm eyes, and playing on her face is a small, enchanting, patient smile. She sits down on the chair and leans in it gracefully, with her body as relaxed as a sleeping cat’s. “So, Ayn?” she says, and her voice is soft and friendly. “You’re quite a bold girl, aren’t you?”
Ayn blinks slowly, and as she looks at the interviewer with cocky, indifferent eyes beneath drooping eyelids, her profile is turned towards the camera, reminding the nation of Panem that she is quite a pretty girl – aside from her rashness, hawkishness, tactlessness. “Maybe,” she grunts with a shrug of her shoulders, and she enfolds her arms over her chest in an almost resolute manner, as if she’s a wall and by crossing her arms over her she manages to thicken herself and protect whatever lies behind.
The interviewer’s patient smile twitches larger, and she chuckles slightly. “Ah heh! You ought to be, especially with that score of yours!” She leans forward slightly and winks at Ayn; Ayn promptly furrows her brow and wrinkles her nose in contempt, and she noticeably presses her back against the back of her chair. “An eleven!” the interviewer continues. “The highest score this year! I bet you were this” – she holds up her hand, and holds the pad of her index finger a hairsbreadth apart from her thumb’s tip – “close to getting a twelve, huh?”
“Maybe,” is all Ayn says.
The interviewer leans back as her hand goes forward, and gives Ayn a small tap on the knee, and in response to the touch the tribute promptly jerks her legs back and wrinkles her nose, as if a cockroach had just scraped its antennae against her kneecap, rather than a fellow human being’s fingers. The interviewer fails to notice the tribute’s recoil and chuckles very warmly, as if she is praising a daughter: “Nothing fazes you, huh?”
Ayn simply shrugs; that’s how she responds to most of the questions the interviewer asks afterwards. A simple shrug, and a quick glance in her direction – as if she thought she heard something, a faint whisper perhaps, or the breath of a sudden and short breeze; something slight and hardly noticeable, just enough for her to look up and barely respond, before withdrawing back into her thick shell. She makes it very hard for the interviewer, who tries to smash that shell and reveal the squishy, formless body who can do nothing, once its armor is pierced; for nobody eats the shell of a mollusk – only the mollusk itself is edible, is worth consuming. But this little mollusk is impregnable and steadfast; nothing the interviewer tries – such as questions about her family, about love interests, et cetera, et cetera – can penetrate her. It’s almost reminiscent of Pip’s interview, but Ayn’s aloofness and withdrawn air seems a tad more natural, less forced and direct. Pip’s responses had all had an ascertainable context, and the way she had cut herself apart from other human beings seemed to have been quite intentional – whether or not it was merely a ploy for the sponsors, or if that’s just the way she is, I do not know; however, Ayn’s aloofness is vaguer, more intriguing: instead of a girl who simply doesn’t care, Ayn comes off as a girl who simply doesn’t care for a good reason. What that reason is, however, she does not reveal, and when one thinks about it, it makes rather good sense: sponsors like mysterious tributes, because obscurity is considered by most as a sexy quality (such is the reason why spies are so attractive to the entertainment sector); plus, there is no reason to whip out any sympathy cards, for it is quite evident by simply looking at her well-built figure that she can stand on her own by simple brute force, and even if she did not have this quality, her private training score – an imperious and triumphant eleven – rather speaks for itself.
She quits the stage with neither a goodbye nor a glance at the crowd, but instead only concentrates on her limbs, which whisk her away from the interviewer at a brusque and busy pace, as if she has something far more important that needs attending. The moment the tribute is gone, the interviewer turns to the audience and, without a single hint of anger or distress to reveal a decision that she had not enjoyed her interview with Ayn Brookenford, she announces Coral Reefer. Coral replaces his district partner in a quick, energetic fashion: he rushes onto stage as if he’s being chased by a herd of bulls, and the moment he’s at the interviewer’s side, he thrusts his arms into the air and whoops with hyperactive ecstasy. The interviewer giggles, and urges him to sit down; it takes her a few seconds to convince him that such stillness and inactivity was possible, but he concedes in the end. The interview commences; Coral attempts keeping his energetic and enthusiastic air by practically shouting his answers at the interviewer and cracking a few silly jokes that only he laughs at, but in the end, his batteries prove to be overcharged. By the end of the interview, Coral’s body is listing forward, his mouth is gaping open as if he’s silently panting, and he can barely keep eye contact with the interviewer. When it is time for them to say goodbye, Coral dips his head respectfully but also in a very subdued fashion to the interviewer, and then turns to give the audience a feeble goodbye. He grunts a little, as he lifts himself off the chair, and he shuffles away, his shoulders sagging slightly, as if he is wearing a very full backpack.
Little Solana Reed from Five hurries forward, her curtain of hair now drawn up into listless pony-tails that lean against her thin clavicle. She is mothered a warm welcome from the interviewer, and a respectful round of claps from the audience, as she settles into her chair. She makes direct eye contact with the interviewer, and her replies are intelligent and earnest, as if she’s the sort of person who is perfectly incapable of telling lies, even little white ones. When the interviewer brings up origins, Solana claims to hail from a medical background, rather than an energy one; her father was a doctor and her mother, his nurse until a wedding locked them together and child rearing became the main priority for Mrs. Reed. “Dad used to bring me with him whenever he made house-calls, and sometimes I’d help him,” Solana mentions, her voice breathing with profoundness – for this is clearly a hint to the sponsors.
Solana Reed eventually leaves the stage, and she flings a certain smile at the audience before she disappears offstage. Mooney Crackers replaces her; he comes off a very subdued creature who mentions how his mother died from urinary cancer in long sentences whose words are drawn out by misery and bifurcated by sighs. Clearly, the fellow is not afraid to pine for pity. Unfortunately for him, whether this is a ploy or an actual personality trait, I don’t think he’ll do well with the sponsors; as everyone knows, the pitiful ones rarely win the Games – or anything else, really.
Once Mooney’s through cracking at the emotional seams, Palanquin Symmetry barely walks on. I say ‘barely’, because she comes into view shuffling, and then promptly stops and stands like a frozen statue as she faces the crowd with eyes bigger than my head. The interviewer has to come over and take her hand and smile at her as if they were old friends in order to coax Palanquin into a seat. The interviewer makes sure to continue the soothing with as many good jokes as possible, and she talks to Palanquin with the relaxedness and familiarity of a best friend. Indeed, as Palanquin’s timidity melts and her sociality begins to bloom, it turns into more of a conversation than an interview – at least, in the way they talk. It’s as if the audience is nonexistent – and if it must exist to the interviewer and the interviewee, then the crowd is merely one large picture, dilated into realistic measures and slanted upon the ground till it inclines like a hill.
Palanquin turns out to be the average, sweet “girl next door” – the one who’s so normal that you can’t help but trust her and like her, if you notice her, which you probably won’t. She reveals that her parents are divorced, and that she has lived with her father ever since the separation (her mother isn’t the sort that is to be very trusted by a judge, you see). Her father is in the wheel manufacturing business (he’s the one who manufactures the wheels, not the one who sells them), and she mentions that she got her build from him. “My mom’s practically anorexic, compared to us,” Palanquin remarks with gruff indifference.
Palanquin quits the stage with a polite wave at the interviewer – she almost refuses to glance at the audience as she leaves, however.
The interviewer’s long and silky legs lift her from her seat; she turns to the audience, and with a smile that reaches up to her eyes, she declares: “Now then, everyone! I’d like to introduce to you the male tribute from District Six: a Mister Slug Lev, who has been very enthusiastic so far – probably the most enthusiastic out of all the tributes, really, so I think he’d be most deserving of a very warm, very hearty welcome when he comes on, alright? So, get ready, and…” Her arm sweeps outward, like a curtain opening to reveal the actors. “Come on up here, Slug!”
Enter Slug, with his feet prompt and light, a roar of applause greeting him. His hand is like a bullet soaring from a gun when he sees the crowd, and he waves it at them as if it’s flag; his smile shimmers with enthusiasm and the pride of being present and – and genuineness. One can tell that he’s truly happy to be there, by the way his eyes widen and twinkle like blue stars in a white sky, and by the softness of his smile; for, when a person forces a grin, it always looks very rigid and frozen and hard, as if it’s falsehood makes it unbendable – but when a smile is real, there’s a level of comfortableness, as well as a visual likelihood of dying, that comes with it. The one that Slug wears is proudly real – or it’s a product fashioned by a very superb actor.
The interviewer beckons him towards her; the motion attracts his gaze, and as his eyes settle atop the interviewer, his lips close against each other, and his mouth becomes a small, gentle grin with a faint hint of loving timidity brushed across his lips. He reaches up to adjust his silky, elegantly black vest – though it was already fixed rightly enough beforehand – and he proceeds to the chair, and as he walks, he keeps his face turned to the audience, his glittering eyes roaming the amassed faces, and he grins approvingly into every pair of eyes that he notices.
He halts in front of his chair, and clasps his hands before a belt that – might just be crafted from gold, if my eyes do not deceive me. It is hard to tell, for it’s a rather thin thing, and his entwined hands block the view partially; however, the belt is set atop a backdrop of a sheeny black (his pants are of a black that has a white streak of sheen, as if it’s shaped from a piece of metal), and thus the luxurious yellow is hard to miss, being a contrasting color.
Slug nods his head to the interviewer – a cue to be the first to sit down. Her lips jump into a larger, laughing grin as she realizes this act of politeness, and as she lowers herself again, she utters a word of thanks that is gentled by happy surprise. Slug reciprocates the thank you graciously as he removes his hands from each other and stretches them out on the chair’s arms; as he does this, one might notice that it seems that the buckle (which his hands had previously covered up) is quite round, and if one looks closely enough – that it appears to have been lovingly chipped into what appears to be the face of a pious lion. However, the buckle is partially covered as he bends his body and then lowers himself onto the seat. The interviewer’s eyes flick downward as he does this, and then goes upward as he completes the movement by lacing his fingers and propping his locked hands on his knee. “That’s a lovely belt you have there,” she comments.
The boy glances at her; as he does, his smile melts into a small frown that is dragged downward by confusion. Then, suddenly, the corners are freed from their bewildering bonds, and they twitch upward in grateful appreciation, whilst his eyes travel down. “Oh, well – thank you, ma’am. My-”
She whips her head around, and she barks at the audience: “Did you see that?” There are a few shouts of nugatory from behind the camera. As if ordered to, the interviewer compliantly turns her head to Slug, and says, “Could you stand up again, please?”
Slug blinks, and his frown becomes innocently obedient. “Yes ma’am,” he says as he lifts himself up and holds his hands rigidly beside him.
“It’s simply…that craftsmanship is…” The interviewer shakes her head, as if trying to deny her astonishment. “Did your stylist design that?”
“Ah, no, ma’am. It’s a present from my father, actually.” His smile is soft as she lets out an impressed exclamation. “He – uh – gave it to me before I left.” Slug’s smile widens. “I got it back just in time for today, so I figured I’d wear it.”
“It’s lovely,” the interviewer murmurs, with her chin bobbing up and down, as if she’s finally come to terms with her astonishment. “Why a lion?”
Slug tosses a glance at her. “Ah, well – don’t ask me what language this is from – but ‘Lev’ – that’s my last name, in case anybody forgot – means ‘lion’. Sorta like ‘Leo’. So, uh, yeah!” He shrugs his shoulders lightly, as if satisfied.
“I think you may sit down now.” Slug obediently does so, but he does not set his hands atop his knees – rather, he keeps them stretched out atop the arms of his chair. The interviewer continues: “So, are you trying to say that it’s a family heirloom?”
Slug nods his head in confirmation. “Yup! Real old, too. We don’t even know.”
“My!” the interviewer breathes. “You must come from a rich family, huh?”
Slug’s body jerks with a small laugh that is weighed down by its knowledge. “Oh, no, ma’am, not me. We’re pretty sure there was a time, but – eh.” He shrugs again. “My pop just fixes the freight trains when they break down. My ma fuels up the trains when they stop by. I do odd jobs after school and all – but none of that altogether can really make us rich. I suppose we could sell my belt – probably get a good payload from the mayor, yah know – but…we don’t really want to.” He shrugs again. “I guess we’re too proud to act like middle-class people, yah know. Selling stuff you don’t need just to shove a little more food onto the table – not that we really don’t need it, yah know. We get by pretty good alone. It’s not like we’re dirt poor, or anything.”
The interviewer bobs her head. “It sounds to me like you’re around trains often, huh?” she says with a slight smile.
A grin flies up his face as he tucks his chin inward. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Do you like trains?”
“Oh, yes ma’am!” His chin flies out of its hiding place. “I adore ‘em! I mean, they’re wonderful, you know! If you’ve ever seen one – oh! The speed – the motion – the grandeur! They’re so – so sleek, you know? And – and there’s this – this perfect harmony between them, sort of; this balance between the rails and the train; this sense of trust!” Slug’s hands flutter with enthusiasm. “I mean, you can’t have the train without the rails – then again, the rails would be a waste of metal without the train! And – and do you know how powerful those trains are? How much food is shipped between district and Capitol, thanks to them? I mean, I suppose that one can pack all the food into a hovercraft, but hovercrafts are so – delicate. They’d be weighed so horribly down by all the food a train can carry, so that their bottoms dragged across the ground!” A small chuckle ripples from the ground by the image Slug has inserted into their minds. Slug flicks his face toward them, and nods at the audience like a wizened sage. “But it’s true! Without trains, trade would not be as possible and as efficient! Not to mention the fact that trains’ are much older than hovercrafts – older than Panem, in fact! Believe me, if it weren’t for trains, there’d be no hovercrafts – you simply have to look at the technological similarities, as well as the historical factor, to sympathize with me. Goodness! I bet a lot of the great and – and absolutely stunning technology you Capitolites are absolutely blessed with” (note that his voice is breathy with respect, and is not at all acidic with sarcasm) “would not have happened if some really old guy hadn’t built the first train!”
The interviewer’s eyes are propped up by amused respect. She leans forward, and her forefinger extends. “Do you know how you talk?” Slug turns his face to her, and looks at her with childish blankness. “Intelligently!” She tosses her hands downward, as if presenting to him something quite special. “What other intelligent things do you like or think about often?”
Slug’s laugh is acute, curt, and embarrassedly grateful. “Well – ah hah – I guess I like math and science. And – and I like to think about people often, too. I like them, you see. Well – us would be the proper word for it. I mean, if a man could build the train and the hovercraft and so many wonderful gadgets in this superbly engineered city – why shouldn’t we – as a race – be as wonderful as the things we make? After all, it’s what we produce during our lifetimes that will stick around, because – well, clearly it’s pretty hard for destroyed things to, yah know.”
The audience snickers slightly, and he pauses politely to let them finish their giggles. The interviewer takes this moment of silence to snatch back the reins of the interview and turn it into a more prudent path rather than a philosophical one – one that’ll keep the sponsors cheering, rather than snoring. “You know, if you’ve thought through why you appreciate humanity, Slug, you’ve probably thought out your strategy for the Games, huh?”
Slug flinches slightly, as if she’s taken him by the collar and yanked him back into reality. “Oh! Ah – yes, I suppose so.”
“Do you feel ready for tomorrow?”
Slug pauses for a moment, his eyes blank and no longer twinkling, as if “tomorrow” hasn’t occurred to him; as if “tomorrow” wasn’t real, until she mentioned it; as if “tomorrow” couldn’t be scientifically possible. Gradually, he blinks; he nods his head in the same manner. “Ah – yes. I suppose I have,” he mumbles – but he doesn’t look so sure.
The interviewer’s head nods once in a curtly fashion; she extends her hand and gives the back of his a small pat. “I bet you’ll be very clever in that arena – very clever.” Slug’s mouth cringes into a smile, and his eyes stare at his pants. “Well – it’s almost time.” Don’t ask me how she knows that. Probably some bug’s in her ear and now some producer’s shouting at her. How the Hell should I know? “Anything else you would like to say before you go?” She withdraws her hand, as if to give him permission to speak.
Slug’s shuddering grin empties and lowers, until it’s a tiny, delicate frown that doesn’t understand life, or his presence, or why time flows. He stares at his pants, as if they’re the most profound things he’s ever seen; then, as if someone’s curled their finger around his chin and is now turning and tilting it, he looks at the interviewer, and admits: “I haven’t told you everything.” Confusion jerks the interviewer’s eyebrows closer, with nothing but intensity to bifurcate them. “I mean – about my name.” Her brows promptly relax. “‘Lev’ also means ‘heart’.”
The interviewer’s face softens, as if she’s come across an orphaned kitten. “‘Lion’ and ‘heart’,” she breathes, as her mouth crawls into a smile. “I suppose that makes you a ‘lion-heart’, doesn’t it, Slug?”
Slug’s pensive frown breaks into an embarrassed grin, and his laugh drags his eyes down to his hand. The interviewer reaches over and takes him by the scapula, and as she moves, she lifts him off his seat; they stand close together, the lanky interviewer with her glisteningly ruby heels looking like an Amazon when juxtaposed with the fifteen-year-old midget beside her. He waves at the audience with friendly enthusiasm – and I’m quite certain that he’s actually quite glad to stand before them.
“Everyone, let’s give this young man a great big hand!” the interviewer orders, her voice jumping up and down with joy. The audience lift themselves from their seats, and their applause is not also satisfied, but also respectful, as if they’re clapping goodbye to a finished speaker at a seminar that they were good enough to pay attention at. Slug Lev turns and steps back, and offers the interviewer his hand, which she’s more than happy to reach down and take and shake. As their hands depart, he gives her a respectful nod, and he then turns to leave. As he exits the stage, he waves his hand at the audience proudly, only dropping it right before he disappears offstage.
Then come the District 7 kids; they are followed by Dishrag Kelly, who does nothing but poke and prod the interviewer with disparaging words, and then Cashmere O’Riley, who is tactless, but humorous. They are then followed by the other children, the most boring out of all of them being the children from Twelve.
Thus ends the interviews. The light and fluffiness that both the tributes and the squeamish have enjoyed for this long is now over; tomorrow, there shall be bloodshed.
-{DAY ONE – BLOODBATH}-
I wonder what goes through those kids minds when they’re elevated atop that silver plate; what they feel - how they see the arena. I wonder if they’re scared, or if they’re confident, or if – or if they’re proud. If they’re ready to die, or to win; if they’re patriotic enough to understand that this is necessary: that this is more than just a game – that it’s a public service, designed to keep the peace.
But I wonder how far one can maintain peace. In extent, I mean.
But there’s no point in speculating.
The moment we woke up this morning, all were tense. There’s no point in relaxation today. There’s never any relaxation – anywhere. Even in the Capitol, I think, there are several individuals who wonder at what they’re watching; who shudder at the gruesome sights. After all, they’re human. Though they are excessively colorful, on the inside, there lies warmth and blood and love. In fact, I rather think that all those chants and mobs that surround the training center during prep week are merely theatrics for the president, for I believe that it is the president who gives them all their luxuries and necessities, not themselves. Thus, they are made numb and reliant; reliant ones cannot rise up and scream evils, for their dependence has numbed their will – thus, they become mobs that love what they see; mobs built from the voices and bodies of individuals who despise their lack of independence and despise the production of their reliance. Yes, yes! I know the classic stereotype: egotistical, bubbly, stupid! But why? Why must they be like that to you? Why must they be organized into one main body (aside from a few mentionable fellows)? What makes them any less human than you are, simply because they wear wigs and lip gloss? Well?
I thought so.
It’s almost time for the Games, you know. I wonder who will die first. I hope it’s not that boy from Six. I rather like him. Out of all the tributes, who do you hope will survive?
The television flickers before us; a small shudder of light, and then a full image. The cameras have clicked into life just in time for us to witness the tributes ascending into the arena. They look around; the view from the television skips into the perspective of a lens that hovers above the Cornucopia: we see that, to the east, there lies a thick forest, with branches clumped together like knots of hair; to the west, there is a building, which stretches upward, tall and oblong and red-bricked. It looks like a nondescript hotel, with an old awning stretching over the glass doorway; painted onto the awning’s face by a precise, mechanical hand is a twin of words: “Hunger Hotel”. How inviting!
The tributes have been set up into a circular position around the Cornucopia, which is per the norm for the Bloodbath. This year’s Bloodbath site seems to be a small plaza of sorts, with gray flagstone lain down, with sprigs of grass bifurcating each slate of flat stone. The flagstone encircles the Cornucopia, and they make smoky gray paths to its yawning and gilded mouth.
The timer at the corner of the screen reads forty seconds left. All the tributes appear to have gotten quite used to their new surroundings, and are now bracing themselves, turning around or bending their knees and body in preparation for flight or fight. The cameras set at the base of the Cornucopia let us peer at our contestants: Chant, Sugary, Coral, and the District 2 children all look very ready and very careerish; Ayn Brookenford is – to say the least – bored out of her wits. (Good God, does anything faze that thing?) There is Solana, with her little legs spread apart and her arms held out and her fists clenched and her head bowed and leaning forward, and her eyes look very earnest; beside her is Slug, whose face is tense and whose body flinches occasionally, and whose fingers runs along the loop of his gaudy belt, and whose mouth keeps twitching in some strange, solemn fashion, as if he is praying. One can see Palanquin shudder, and how her face is tense with tears, yet her eyes are dry; one can see Dishrag Kelly, with a hyena smile and a hyena glint in her eyes, and who looks like a hyenafied career.
The gong screams eventually. They’re all rockets as they come off their plates, some taking a bold chance for riches at the Cornucopia, others accepting cowardice and flying away. I see Slug in the background as the camera assumes a new position; he’s another one who’s decided a yellow streak up his belly is far more comfortable than several sanguinary ones. Oddly enough, while the camera remains in its position I see Solana Reed, who is charging for the Cornucopia, not charging for the forest or the hotel – which I, for one, find rather interesting, as most intelligent tributes her age often head straight for the hills.
In this case, however, it seems that the older tribute of the district – Mooney Crackers – is the one who’s flying, rather than the other way around (which is more common). In fact, it seems that he’s the fastest of all the fleers, for it is he who is the closest to his destination: the eastward forest, whose lanky trees open their curved boughs to him in loving embrace. He nears, he nears! Behind him we hear the beginnings of battle – we are given a brief glimpse of Ayn Brookenford of Four throwing down the District 1 girl (oddly enough), Chant Singing, who then squeals in agony – our attentions are returned to him, and we watch as he quickens. He’s nearer, he’s nearer! Oh, ready yourselves, ladies and gents, it is a survivor we have on our hands here!
He is at the end – the very tip of the edge of the Bloodbath’s site – all that stands in his path are trees – then – WHAM! He has stopped! He has stopped! It’s as if he’s driven himself into a wall! I mean, that’s literally what it looks like! And then, before any of us can breathe, can think…
In one dramatic surge of violence, he begins to convulse; his arms flop; he screams a primal screech of agony. Around him, broken and bent rings of electricity arch outwardly, going in all directions, until we see an entire wall of electricity that rises to the sky, that is taller than even the Hunger Hotel, that blocks the entire view of the forest. Blue crackles from it; in those horrific moments, it is the only color in the Bloodbath: it shines off of everything, dyes everything in its cold and unfeeling light. As we listen to Mooney’s screams, we are given brief glimpses of blue faces: Solana’s, whose mouth has stretched open and whose face is streaked by two lines of tears; Pip’s, whose face is just as cold as the blue that colors it; we see Ayn’s raised brow; Slug’s stunned expression; Dishrag’s ravenously hyena-like grin.
Then, it is over. The victim falls, and his body makes a horrific thud noise as it crashes to the flagstone. Mooney Crackers of District 5 is dead.
The first to die is dead, and no one moves. All is still, as if all the tributes are paying their respects at a funeral. We see more faces; understanding resides in each.
“Are…,” quivers Palanquin, “are we…trapped?”
The camera jerks to the District 2 girl, who was the first to reach the Cornucopia and the first to obtain her weapons, which is a leather bag filled with lawn darts. The bag is open; she has already reached into it, she has produced her dart: then, in a blink, the dart becomes deadly as it rockets through air. It hits the husky boy from Eleven in the back; his sternum lurches forward, his fingers become crooked as he bellows in agony. His sudden outburst draws everyone’s attention to his death: they all watch as he staggers, then drops, then dies.
A disgracefully hyena-like, whooping cackle disrespects the poor boy’s death almost immediately; the camera promptly swings to Dishrag Kelly of Eight, whose hyena-face is drawn tight with pleasure, whose eyes sparkle as if they were hit by sunlight. She’s running her hands together in glee; she’s rocking back and forth like a maniac. She then cackles: “It’s still the Bloodbath, bitches! Whooook whooook whoooook!”
Then, as if they’ve all been reminded of something very important, as if they’ve all forgotten of Mooney’s death, all become animated. Those who were fleeing now run back and forth, trying not to be noticed, as they try to sketch up a new plan; those who were ready to fight continue on their race to the Cornucopia. Out of instinct, a few snatch up bags and hold their goods close to their bodies, as if the bags are shields. One is Ayn Brookenford, who grabs a bag and then darts away from the Cornucopia, crossing over to the other side of the Bloodbath, near to the hotel.
As people pounce on the Cornucopia and scoop up weapons with unbridled avarice, we see that the Gamemakers have become quite creative, as of late: instead of the typical sword and knife, we are given home appliances, such as clocks and light-bulbs. If one’s eyes remain vigilant in this momentum of action, one can Dishrag Kelly scoop up a belt that has been equipped with a dozen loops that contain – oh Lord! – throwing scissors; one might also note Pip Pippinson as she rips a full-size vacuum cleaner from the clutches of the District Nine boy, and, with remarkable and shocking might, bashes his jaw with one of its wheels; and, there I see little Solana, still shaking and still crying, swallowing and clearly trying not to be a twelve-year-old, as she holds her table lamp close to her. Cashmere stands beside her, his legs straddled defiantly and he has the defiant defensiveness of an older brother darkening his gaze as he urges her along, weaving her through the traffic of death, and occasionally thrusting his pen at those who had the gall to approach.
In a matter of moments, all the tributes of Twelve and Eleven have been slain – all of which being victims of the bloodthirsty career pack (which – if this has not been made clear before – does not include Ayn Brookenford). One of their members, Coral Reefer, stands at the back of the Cornucopia, legs straddled and body tight with the readiness of action, a toaster tucked under one arm, his other arm bearing a lawn gnome. He glances around himself; then, he catches sight of Slug Lev, streaking up to the Cornucopia, his celerity being compounded by panic and adrenaline. Coral sucks on his lips, his eyes narrowing, and he pulls his gnome out from under his arm. He braces himself, and checks that Slug hasn’t noticed him; then, he charges.
As it appears, Coral’s plan was to charge smack into Slug like a mad bull, so that Slug would stagger and fall and become vulnerable, and then Coral would proceed to pulverize him with his gnome. A Coral-like plan, to be sure. It soon proves faulty, however, as Slug pauses, snatches a satchel off the ground, looks up, and then his eyes bulge as he sees Coral closing in on him. He bellows in surprise, and leaps forward, just in time to dodge the attack; Coral shoots past him, skids to a halt, and whirls around. He snorts in frustration, but does not let his mistake upset him to the point of surrender; again, he throws himself at Slug, gnome raised and ready to make contact. But Slug’s size has given him the advantage (as you should already know, it is common knowledge that smaller people are quite often the quicker and slippier), and he backs out of the way as the gnome is swung down. A primal groan of irritation tears out of Coral’s throat, and – supposedly out of frazzled exasperation, though he might have actually been trying to trip Slug up or something (remember that Coral is not a smart boy) – he takes up his toaster, and throws it at Slug’s head. But Slug’s quite content on letting this skirmish remain a dull one, for he promptly throws himself out of its path and it crashes to the ground.
Then a twist curls into the plot! Both realize that a weapon stands ownerless on the ground; both realize that one is weaponless. Their eyes stare at the toaster for a moment, then they lock gazes, and then – they dive with unfurled and greedy hands! In one blink, a winner emerges, toaster in hand; in one blink, the toaster crashes against the loser’s ribcage with enough force to put a dent in both the weapon and the ribcage, and the loser staggers backward, grunting his surprise. Seeing his chance, the winner flees, rather than kills – for that winner was Slug Lev.
He streaks across the rest of the plaza; his path remains unnoticed – except by Ayn Brookenford, who stands straddled, satchel in hand. As he rockets by her, her eyes run to follow him, and she watches with a raised brow as he approaches the hotel. There he pauses; he throws out his toaster, walks a few feet, then throws it again. He does this until he reaches the door, and then, with a satisfied grin, he disappears inside it.
Ayn pauses, her brows raised slightly in aloof surprise; then the corner of her mouth reaches upward, curling her lips into a smirk, and she follows after him – the second to successfully flee the Bloodbath.
Just as Ayn vanishes into the Hunger Hotel, the scream of the District Seven girl rips the air into shreds, and the screen flinches just in time for us to witness her demise. Blood trickles from the side of her skull, down to her neck; Coral Reefer stands over her, his face a mere shadow, a bloodied lawn gnome in his grasp.
The camera returns us to the Cornucopia, and we are just in time to witness Solana Reed snatch a medical kit. She turns her face to Cashmere, and shows it to him; he nods, takes her by the elbow, and proceeds to lead her out of the Cornucopia. However, just as they reach its mouth, the wily District Nine female leaps out from her hiding place – a stack of crates – and lunges at them. Both of the children flinch and shout their surprise, but both lunge back with their weapons, smacking and stabbing her hands with their individual weapons. The attacker flinches, but she’s not giving up; she lifts her leg up and plants her boot against Cashmere’s face, pushing him backward, and with a cry, he falls. Solana turns and shouts his name – and the attacker lunges again, and rips the medical kit out of Solana’s hand. Solana flinches and begins to move, but her antagonist is too fast – already, she’s out of the Cornucopia. The only thing that can slow her down is the District 2 female’s lawn dart – which shoots through the air and catches the poor girl in the back of the neck, and down she falls.
The murderous career girl smirks in delight, and whispers to Sugary Freud, who stands beside her: “These last few’ll be easy.” She refers to Palanquin Symmetry, Solana Reed, Cashmere O’Riley, Pip Pippinson, and Dishrag Kelly. The others, such as Digit McGurt of Three, the District 10 children, and the survivors of Seven and Nine, were either fleeing and/or out of her sight. One of the sole latter was Digit McGurt.
Like the District 9 girl, Digit, too, had hid behind some crates, and now he peers over them, his eyes narrowed at the District 2 girl. He looks away only to gather up his weapon – a tall lamp with a brassy stem – and holding it carefully, he creeps up to her, careful that neither victim nor companion notice. He pauses behind her; he holds his lamp like a baseball bat; then, he swings! Its rod crashes into her the base of her spine and a grunt of surprise is thrown out of her mouth as she stumbles forward. Digit whirls around, and slams his lamp into Sugary’s stomach, and beneath the force of the blow the career tumbles down. Digit then turns and lifts his lamp into the air; he screams with the might of a roaring lion: “ATTACK!”
Chant Singing, the female from One, who had been collecting her weapon that had slipped out of her hand during the commotion, looks up, and realizes the mess she and her companions have been tossed into. She sees Digit with his lamp held high in the air, like a flag, like a freedom fighter’s sword; she sees her companions on the ground, their hands stamped to their hurts; she sees the non-careers – the supposed easy targets – Dishrag, Pip, Palanquin, Solana, Cashmere; she sees them rise, and she sees them advance at the cry of their leader.
Clutched in the fist of shock, all she can scream is: “What the Hell?”
Just then, Coral appears at the mouth of the Cornucopia, his face contorted with confusion at the cries and screams he had just heard, as well as in pain by the agony in his ribs. Dishrag promptly whirls around; her face twists into an unholy hyena-like smile; her arm is like a whip as she snatches a throwing scissor from her belt and tosses it at him. Her cry of triumph resounds – “Whooooooo! Whooooooook! Whoooooook!” – as the projectile plunges into his face.
And then the non-careers fall on the careers.
The District 2 male curls his lip as he watches his compatriots be set on; as his district partner’s face is shoved to the ground by the foot of Digit’s lamp; as Sugary’s arm bends the wrong way against the weight of Pip’s vacuum; as Chant squeezes Dishrag’s wrists while the ugly lunatic tries to shove one of her scissors into her victim. He gnashes his teeth, and turns; and behind him, a kitchen knife is thrust into his back. In an instant, his body becomes limp, and he drops to the ground; Palanquin stands over him, her fingers bloody, her entire body quivering at the sight of the horrible, unpronounceable thing she has just done. She’s pale – like a corpse; the blood stands blatant and vivid on her ashen fingers. She releases a small whimper, but that’s all she seems to be capable of doing. It’s as if she’s paralyzed, but still able to stand. Or perhaps I should say “frozen” – frozen in a capsule of ice, unable to move, unable to break free.
As her district partner lies dead, the District 2 female frees her head from beneath the lamp’s foot, and she lifts herself up with her hands and knees. She reaches and manages to grab the rod of Digit’s lamp; she pulls herself to feet, struggling with Digit all the while, and then with a primal growl she tears it from his fingers. His face promptly falls ashen; he backs away in a dazed manner; it’s as if he’s looking at Death himself. As she contorts her face into one of twisted, demonic passion, she rams the foot of the lamp into Digit’s gut, and thus pins him to the wall of the Cornucopia. The wind is knocked from his lungs; his head lurches forward; his mouth falls open and his body becomes limp and stunned. She lifts it, ready to slam the foot of her lamp against his skull, when-!
As Two was attacking Digit, Dishrag Kelly had managed to free her wrist from Chant’s grasp, and the camera was just in time for us to see the District 8 female plunge her scissor into Chant’s heart twice. As she rips her weapon free from Chant’s chest for the second time, Dishrag turns, just in time to see her leader about to be pulverized by his own weapon. Without bothering to think, Dishrag throws her bloodied scissor at the girl from Two, and it lands in her back; it makes her fingers go limp, and the lamp falls to her feet – but she is not down! She begins to turn in a hurried but sluggish fashion, and her hand is going for her bag of lawn darts. Dishrag snatches another scissor from her belt, and just as her new opponent draws out her dart, she sends the projectile into the air, into her victim’s shoulder. Two staggers, winces; but does she fall? No! She lifts her dart into the air, and tosses it. As it whizzes through the air, Dishrag yanks out another, mumbles the word “bitch” under her breath, and throws it again. This time, Two falls, and all that remains of the career pack is Sugary Freud, who is still locked in earnest battle with Pip Pippinson.
But what of Two’s final dart?
Allegedly, she had thrown it at Dishrag – and if that was her intention, then she had missed by a long shot. For it was not Dishrag who felt the dart’s sting, but rather, Cashmere O’Riley. Cashmere had been standing at an allegedly safe distance from the mouth of the Cornucopia with Solana, who had managed to reclaim her medical kit. And, in the moments of his murderess’s death, the victim dies also, with a dart lodged in his heart, supposedly before he can realize what has happened to him. He leaves behind Solana; she throws herself to her knees beside him, and snatches his fingers with one quivering hand and tears out the dart from his chest with her other. She lets go of both and rips medical supplies from her kit; she tries remedying the fatal wound – but it’s too late. It takes her several minutes to realize that. And once it settles in that her friend has died – she screams.
None of her other companions hear her; whether or not the sound of Sugary’s skull smashing into little pieces beneath Pip’s vacuum and the ecstatic cheering that followed drowns out her screams, I don’t know, but I know that I can hear it.
Digit looks down on the splattered remnants of Sugary’s head with a smile of satisfaction; he clutches his stomach as he declares: “Friends, it is finished! The Cornucopia is ours! All the others shall be piecemeal, compared to these arrogant low-brows whom we have vanquished!”
Gee, nice speech.
He turns to Dishrag, and caresses his smarting belly tenderly. “Many thanks for rescuing me there, Dishrag. I would be dead without you.”
Dishrag snickers, and her eyes gleam as she replies: “I wasn’t savin’ you, smart-ass – I was killing her.” She gestures to the District 2 female’s carcass with one of her scissors.
The retort snaps at a bit of Digit’s pleased grin, but it remains all the same. “Yes, yes, of course,” he chuckles, and turns from her. He notices Palanquin, who has remained in the same spot – in the same position – all throughout the rest of the fight. He grimaces as he eyes her over, and then looks at Pip. “Take Dishrag and scout around the plaza; make sure that no one’s lingering, all right?”
Pip nods dutifully, and with the stiffness of a military man, she leads Dishrag away from the Cornucopia, pushing her blood-stained vacuum cleaner before her. The wheels track two streaks of blood across the grass and flagstone as she does so.
Digit watches them leave, and then he takes up his lamp and then Palanquin’s hand, not cringing at the blood that has stained her fingers. He leads her away, and halts before Solana. The girl’s screams had died upon the sight of him, but the misery has not; she looks up at him, and the tears silently cascade, like slender waterfalls.
He stares at her, then at Cashmere; his frown compounds in size. He looks into her eyes, and he tells her: “Come on; the living need you.” Her nostrils flare for a moment as she sniffles, but she nods dully and grabs her kit and follows him as he leads them behind the Cornucopia, where there lie fewer carcasses. The two scouts return, having found no prey; they sit down, and Solana – the apparent nurse of the bunch – opens her kit and starts dressing wounds. Her fingers are precise, but the tears still stream, and her body moves in an absent fashion, as if there is no mind to connect to the muscles – as if she is a robot.
Later, they make camp; they watch as the hovercrafts creep in and pull the corpses from the ground and into the sky.
In the hotel, all is well, and the other surviving tributes have made themselves quite comfortable, mental or physical wounds aside. The hotel they now reside in is one of uttermost luxury, with marble staircases and the plushest velvet carpets known to man; all the beds are soft, from what I can tell by the people who are currently making use of them, and each gilded hallway has a flower arrangement whose flowers are vivid and – according to a remark the District 10 girl makes as she sniffs one – smells delightful. There are several fine hiding places, several opulent bathrooms, running water that is pure (as proven by a particularly thirsty District 7 tribute), and a dining room full of food which, too, is good for human consumption (the District 10 male got quite famished from all his fleeing and has proved it so to us).
As the day continues, we see the tributes adapting to their surroundings: Slug Lev finds a hiding place in the kitchen; Ayn Brookenford – sole survivor of all the careers - has taken refuge in a closet, and now sleeps in there; the District 9 male groans and staggers around the halls as he nurses the broken jaw Pip had given him back at the Bloodbath, until he finally decides to hide behind the front counter; the District 7 male hides in a stall in the men’s restroom; the District 10 male has decided to make camp beneath the table of the dining room that he had so happily taken advantage of; the District 10 female makes good use of one of the suites, and has showered and has taken on a new of clothes (which was provided by the hotel and had awaited her in the suite’s closet, along with several other outfits, all of which being this Games’ uniform).
The day ends. We are met with reruns of the tributes’ deaths, in order of placement. We then flick back to the tributes, to get their reactions of the faces that they had just seen in the sky, in order of the number of their district (such is the way that is done for those in the arena). At the cry of the anthem, Ayn stirs, and as she lifts her face to the ceiling (on which a projector flashes the faces of the fallen), her tired eyes do not show a flicker of emotion as she stares up at the countenance of Coral Reefer; several tributes murmur their surprise to find that most of the careers have perished already; Solana clenches her jaw as she sees the face of Mooney Crackers staring down at her from the sky, and then squeezes her eyes tightly shut before she can look up at Cashmere; Palanquin doesn’t look at the sky once – she only stares ahead of her; Dishrag snickers all the while atop her perch on the Cornucopia, on which she takes watch for her pack.
Digit makes one last comment before the new non-career pack goes to sleep: “Tomorrow, we hunt.”
{DAY 2}
Well, well, well! Day Two, and only eleven tributes left! Less than half, did you know? Oh, yes! Around thirteen tributes dead – and already, Mrs. Higglesworm! Oh, my! The Bloodbath last night was so exciting, wasn’t it? Oh, I absolutely loved the twist at the beginning, with that wall of electricity and all that! The Gamemakers are soooo creative, are they not? Oh ho ho ho! Oh – oh? A Hunger Games musical, you think they should manage? Oh! Oh ho ho! That would be sooo entertaining, Mrs. Higglesworm! Do you think they’d make one?
Oh! Oh, hush, everyone! The show’s coming on! Set your coffee down and glue your eyes to the screen~!
Ahem! Most apologies, audience. I had company to entertain. Dreadful things, company. Quite distracting. But anyway – on with the Games…
On the flagstoned plaza that enshrines the Cornucopia, a short, hazy mist has fallen, drifting across the ground in lazy, filmy vapors. Above, the sky is becoming a gray with shadows stretching across it, as if the night refuses to be vacuumed out from the sky. A few brave stars still wink down from the sky; to the west lies the hotel, with light still beaming from the majority of the windows, except for one, in which still resides the District 10 female, who has turned the lights of her room off.
Most of the tributes have remained in their campsites since the night fell across the arena like an inky curtain. The only one that had moved had been Ayn Brookenford, who had only slept for an hour before her eyes had sprung open and she went on a nightly prowl, creeping from her closet with the stealth of a jungle cat and slinking through the corridors of the hotel with the might of a lion and the slyness of a fox. She made not a noise as she explored the hallways –and that was all that she did. She merely explored; it did not appear as if she was in the hunt for anything, nor anyone. She nibbled and she sipped her rations, she slunk around – and then, when she realized that the sun was peeking over the horizon, she found another closet, checked that it was safe, secured the door with a lock and various items and then went back to sleep. And that was that.
Now, however, that sun has crawled further, so that we may eye its entire upper half, other sure predators are stirring. This one is Dishrag Kelly, who sits atop the Cornucopia, one foot set confidently atop the Cornucopia and the other dangling listlessly at its side. She stares out at the horizon with a perpetual hyena smile; then, she snips the throwing scissor in her hand, and with a shrill, but muffled “whook!” she flings herself from her perch and drops. She lands into the mist soundlessly; her pace is brusque as she hurries up to the mouth of the Cornucopia; she peers inside, and her hyena face twists into an eager smirk as she looks down at her allies. She “whoooooks!”, and then cries: “Move yer asses, bitches! We gotta day ahead of us!”
All promptly awaken: Palanquin clenches her eyelids, and they wrinkle profusely as she silently refuses to open them; Solana opens her eyes, but she is sluggish as she lifts herself to her feet; Pip and Digit spring to their feet as if Dishrag’s profanities were cues.
“Good Lord, Dishrag!” Digit exclaims as he reaches behind himself to scratch his back. “You were supposed to take just the first watch; did you take the last one too, or were you awake all night?”
Dishrag’s not telling; all she does is snicker at him, as if she’s remembering a spy of a joke.
Solana lifts her chin up, and blinks. “I had second watch,” she informs him. “She never woke me up.”
Digit opens his mouth, but Dishrag promptly snaps his words back into his mouth, and his jaws flinch close. “Shut yer trap, Wet Nurse!” she snaps. Solana doesn’t flinch; she only presses her lips close together and stares quietly at Dishrag. I suppose she’s learned to contain that twelve-year-old side of hers already.
Dishrag swoops her attention away from Solana, and it seizes Palanquin, who has still not opened her eyes. Her smirk slithers higher up her face, and with a profound determination that lifts her feet up then down in a marching rhythm, she starts toward Palanquin, and barks as she does so: “‘Ay, Wallflower! Move yer ass, or else I’ll tear it-”
The moment Dishrag refers to Palanquin by her nickname, “Wallflower”, the girl’s eyes spring open, and she throws herself to her feet. However, this doesn’t alter Dishrag’s course; she keeps marching and threatening, with a malicious glint in her eye that is so horrid that one would think it could murder well on its own, and Dishrag’s muscles are tense, as if her body’s itching to deal a blow. All the others see this, and all react: Palanquin backs away, and her face is paler than snow; Solana’s jaw clenches; Pip, her face now austere with a cold and dangerous anger, reaches for her vacuum cleaner; it is Digit, however, who throws himself in front of Dishrag and ends the violence before it can begin.
“There’s no need for that, now, Kelly!” he grunts at her. “Go to the larder and take breakfast, alright?”
Dishrag’s glistening eyes narrow, but her smirk slithers higher. “If there ain’t no need for it, then what do we need, eh, Brainiac?” she snickers, in that same vague manner that alludes to some secret joke of hers. The throwing scissor in her hand snips eagerly.
Digit purses his lip, and lifts his palm and pushes the air gently – a silent signal for Dishrag to calm herself. “What we need is unity and forgiveness amongst ourselves, Kelly,” he says, his voice smoother than silk. “Now, let’s take a breath and step back…”
Dishrag does no such thing; the snipping of the scissor quickens.
Pip’s grip on her vacuum cleaner’s handle tightens, and with a wrinkle of her nose she takes the rod that acts as the spine of the vacuum and lifts the vacuum off its wheels. She leans forward, her muscles tighten, and she growls: “Use those scissors and you shall be the first to die today, Kelly.”
Dishrag’s slithering, smirking lips curl upward, showing rows of bleached fangs that had clearly been artificially whitened by the girl’s stylist prior to the Games. She snickers a little, and then hisses through her clenched teeth: “Please. I could hose y’all down before any of y’all could even blink.” She snickers again with some peculiar, hyenaish glee – but, rather than validating her threat, she turns from Digit, and skulks up to the pack’s larder, opens up one of the crates, and pulls out an apple that resides within. As her fangs bear down on it, she turns her face towards Pip, and stares at the District 3 tribute with that gleefully homicidal light in her eye. Pip narrows her eyes, but she looks away and takes a seat on the ground, her vacuum readied beside her, one of her hands on its spine and the other fishing into her bag for her morning meal. Others soon follow; Palanquin devours her meal a little sheepishly, with a fragile and wary air about her, and she doesn’t finish her breakfast. Digit and Solana eat a little more confidently, but it’s clear that an anxiety has infected them, also.
When they are through, they gather their bags, load Palanquin up with as much crap as possible, and they march off for their hunting grounds: the hotel.
“It’s the only place they could have gone, what with the force field blocking the forest – if there’s a forest at all,” Digit informs them, his voice cold, aloof, and technical. “The forest is probably just a hologram to lure unsuspecting idiots into their trap.”
Solana’s eyes flinch upward. “Mooney wasn’t an idiot,” she protests, her voice calm and matter-of-fact – but, as a nuance of anger shimmers beneath the calm exterior of her little face, it’s clear it’s a protest.
“He was whinier than shit,” Dishrag snickers. “Should’ve call ‘im ‘Whiney Crackers’.”
Solana’s brow furrows, and her eyebrows contract closer together, but she lowers her eyes. I can’t tell if it’s because Solana essentially agrees with Dishrag, if she wasn’t close enough to Mooney to feel the need to further the argument, or if she simply doesn’t want to bicker with Dishrag in particular that silences her.
As the non-career pack travels onward, movement stirs within the hotel. The other tributes are starting to awaken; all that remain asleep are Ayn, who has already done her share of tributing, and the District 9 boy, whose broken jaw must have taken a lot out of him, for he almost refuses to stir and leave his hiding place behind the front desk. In the dining room, the District 10 boy crawls out from beneath his table, promptly takes a seat, and looks down at the table. Overnight, the table has seemed to replenish itself; there is just as much food on the table as there was when the District 10 boy found it. Realizing this, the District 10 boy grins with glee, and sets himself atop the food and drink, not at all concerned about table manners as greedy saliva dribbles from his stuffed mouth.
On the floors above, the District 10 girl has left her suite, showered again and refreshed, and as she nibbles on a ration from her pack, she looks around herself in that shy and jumpy manner that most cautious tributes bear as they search for further food supplies. Beneath her, and only a few walls and a door separating it from the District 10 boy’s feast, there lies the kitchen, and tucked within one of the kitchen’s cabinets is Slug Lev. He has just opened the short door of the cabinet, and is peeking out from the crack of space that separates the door with the cabinet’s threshold. Then, spying no one, Slug gently and quietly eases his way out. He reaches in and grabs his toaster in the same manner; he then gets up, and pauses, looking around himself earnestly, as if in expectation for some horrible creature of the night to set itself upon him; he sneaks around the kitchen in this manner, inspecting every cranny until he is certain that his surroundings are free of any other human being. He smiles, and nods in satisfaction; he returns to the cabinet, sets his toaster on the black-and-white patched floor, and proceeds to drag out his satchel. He kneels down on his haunches like a satisfied bird, and with small and efficient fingers he opens his satchel and begins to pull out the various items within and setting them in separate piles, like a squirrel separating and organizing his nuts. In one pile, an empty tin cup and a canteen; in the other pile, stacked curls of ropes and wires – a stack that becomes such a tower that it reaches up to his knees in his kneeled position. Slug stands up, and standing straddled and akimbo he looks down on his plethora of piled ropes and wires; a grin perches atop his face, one as wily as any good fox, as satisfied as a fattened pig, as thoughtful as a sage owl, as good-natured as a dog.
With this smile, he sets himself upon the other cabinets, upon the drawers, upon the racks; he steals from them their contents, their knives, their cookery devices, their utensils – and he sets them all in a third pile, organized by shape and usage. His fingers take up a coiled rope gently, as if it’s a baby; his eyes fall on the utensils and pots that he has collected, and they narrow, as if he’s concerning his mind with the meaning of life; he holds his chin, and caresses its front with an index finger.
Meanwhile, the non-career pack has entered the hotel. They enter, one by one, Dishrag with her throwing scissors at the ready, then Digit, then Pip, then Palanquin and Solana. They keep clustered together, the tenseness evident in their bodies, and they all move like animals with their hackles up. They glance around; Digit orders, his voice low but rigid with authority: “Check the doors; the counter – anything that one can hide behind.”
They scatter, eyes darting, ears perked, movements rigid, but somehow fluid. While the others peek around corners, it is Dishrag who nears the counter, and just as she is halfway there, a small groan creaks out from behind it – a low, almost muffled noise, but in the intensity and stiffened silence of the moment, it is as loud as a cannon. It snatches all in a fist of stillness, and it drags all eyes in its direction. There is the sound of movement; Dishrag, her face a twisted mess of hyena glee, takes a padded step forward, and she lifts a scissor into the air. Another groan smashes the silence into shards, and then – the back of a head lifts up from behind the counter, then the back of a body. It is the District 9 boy, his fingers gently caressing his snapped and crooked jaw, his body swaying beneath pain and sleep, and completely unaware of the foes behind him.
A timespan smaller than an instance snaps between the rising of the District 9 boy and the movement of Dishrag’s arm; it sweeps down, like a whip, like an executioner throwing down the axe onto a guilty man’s neck. The scissor seems to magically appear in the back of the boy’s skull; the cannon barks in remorse as his body lurches forward, and then he falls to the floor. A swift, hopefully painless death, hopefully innocent of that cold, shuddering realization that his time on earth was doomed.
Digit blinks, his eyebrow twitches upward for a moment, then it lowers, and his face melts into a gooey grin of approval. “Well! Nice job, Kelly!” he says, as if he was no longer concerned of silence. Kelly only snorts, and permits herself a honking “whook” of excitement to trumpet from her. Pip wrinkles her nose and her eyes roll upward, her face an acidic slate and completely unimpressed; she turns her face as if she is discarding a piece of trash. Solana’s face wrinkles and she shudders, but that is all of a reaction we can see from her: her decision to not be a twelve-year-old during these Games must be a steadfast one, for she is capable of turning away and continuing her search for more victims without any other negative emotions to rock her.
It is Palanquin – one of their oldest members – who has been seized by the claws of shock and terror, and now seems enthralled by it. She is quivering as if a jagged tremor has seized the ground beneath her and now rocks it, so hard that even the heavy load on her back and the kitchen knife quivers with her; she is pale again, more ashen than a carcass; her face is slack with a fear that has loosened the muscles, making it impossible for work and battle. Her feet shuffles backward, dragging her body with it, and there’s an odd air around her, as if something on strings is controlling her. It lifts up her empty hand, and it relieves her of her overloaded and fattened pack, and sets it gently on the ground. It shuffles her to the closest exit; it makes her pause, and she looks around, her eyes darting towards all of them, noting them, making sure they’re not looking at her, I bet: then, she’s a rocket, bursting into the next room, moving faster than what would think her heavy frame can bear.
The room that she first enters is the dining room, where, as you might already be aware of, resides the boy from Ten. Fortunately, there is no conflict; Palanquin doesn’t even notice him, and the moment he spots her, he merely dives beneath his table and hides behind the orange, gold-garlanded tablecloth, where he remains even after she departs, mumbling profanities to himself and groveling about how he’ll probably be forced to leave soon.
Palanquin bursts into the kitchen, another room occupied by a tribute - Slug Lev, her district partner. Whether either she or Slug is willing to hold that fact that their home is each other’s home as sacred, I don’t know, but I have a feeling that will be so. But then again, this is the Games.
As Palanquin bursts in through the swinging door, we see Slug atop a counter, using it as a perch as he raises a rope to a wheeled, medium-sized metal shelving that had once contained pots and pans before Slug removed them. He flinches at the sound of his door exploding open, and his little body tightens; then, as his eyes fall on Palanquin’s pale and stiff and heavy frame, his body relaxes, and relief releases the intensity so much so that his body sags a little.
“Pal!” Slug breathes; still holding the rope, he jumps off the counter, looks at her, and pauses. Slowly, the relief that had relaxed him begins to melt, and up rises the intensity of worry, his brow furrowed and his eyes wide with a curious shock and his mouth a rigid line. “What’s wrong?” he adds slowly, his voice firm and wary.
She stares at him for a moment, her eyes wide and dull and empty with frightful idiocy; her body quivers, and then her eyes explode in a gush of tears, and sobs catch and choke in her throat. She doesn’t bother covering them up, as if she does not fear the humiliation of a moment of weakness. “My – my allies!” she cries, the words rattling in her throat. “They – they-”
Slug’s eyes widen, and firm with the intensity of caring. The rope plummets from his hand, and he rushes up to her; the rope is replaced by her arm as he gently lays his fingers on her forearm, and he says, his voice low and soft and as slow as a lullaby: “Are they dead?” (I guess he forgot that only one cannon had been shot since the day started, or he didn’t notice that she had used the plural form of “ally”.) “Has the alliance been dissolved? Did they attack you?”
Palanquin shakes her head as if it was a dripping pendulum. “No! They – they attacked someone else and-” A ragged choking noise strangles the end of her sentence.
Slug pauses, his eyes still hardened by worried care – then, his face loosens with the shock of a blowing realization; he tucks his chin into his throat for a moment, and then he lifts his face up to her, and his fingers start to run up and down the length of her arm. “It’s okay – you don’t have to be with them anymore, if you don’t like it with them.”
Palanquin seems to neither hear nor feel him – she merely continues to stammer over her strangled words: “And – and during the Bloodbath – we were the ones who killed all the careers, you know. And – and they made me kill one of them, even though I told them I didn’t want to, even though I told them that I wanted to help Cashmere keep guard over Solana, but they said I had to, that all the older kids had to kill them off and that they were already risking it by not letting Solana and Cashmere help and – and everything’s so – and Dishrag, she…”
Her fingers become limp; the knife in her hand falls, and it clatters on the floor. Slug’s eyebrows are propelled upward; the corners of his firmed mouth quiver, and, in one gentle and slow motion, he draws her closer and wraps his small arms around her, as if his scrawny, short appendages are a protective shell of hers, like the ones armadillos and snails have.
Meanwhile, the non-career pack has given notice that their pack mule has left them.
“Did she abandon us, or something?” Solana asks herself gently, as her foot prods the fattened sack of supplies that they had forced onto Palanquin’s back.
“She wouldn’t dare!” Dishrag snorts in ragged contempt. “She’s too much of a yellow-bellied coward to!”
Pip’s eyebrow perks up. “Alas, I fear that’s more of a motivation to leave than anything else,” she grunts, her voice cold and precisely crisp.
Digit, who has his foot perched atop the discarded bag and with his arm draped across it like a throw, looks down at the baggage beneath his foot with a calm thoughtfulness, as if the fact that one of his allies has deserted him is merely some curious question for him to ponder over in his free time, rather than some sting to his feelings, rather than a betrayal. “Welp, no point in bothering about it,” he grunts with a small shrug as he lifts his body erect and removes his foot off the bag. “No point in searching for her, either. Let’s just get the bag and get a move on.”
Pip nods slowly. “Yes, that would be the logical thing to do,” she says coolly. She looks up at him with icy, dictatorial eyes that are both brash and intelligent. “Let’s clear out the lower floor, and then work our way up.”
Digit’s mouth twitches into a slight smile. “I like the sound of that. Let’s do it.”
“We’ll cover more distance if we split up.”
Digit frowns at that suggestion, and his eyes flicker down pensively. “Yes, but we’ll also be less powerful, if we do that.”
Pip’s mouth curves into a long, almost perpetual frown, and she grunts: “Well, is this a matter of time, or a matter of strength?”
“Neither; it’s a matter of survival.”
“Doesn’t survival require both?”
“Not necessarily. It depends on what you have. But by technicality, we have both.”
“On the contrary, McGurt,” Pip replies, her voice dripping with icy acid, “we only have strength. As we speak, we are losing what little time we have because you insist on arguing.”
That snaps Digit’s argument as if it is a brittle twig, and one can see the bitterness of defeat wrinkle and smudge his face. He nips his lip, and with his brow furrowed he grumbles his submission. “Very well,” says he; “but we do this only once, do you understand? Just for the initial survivors.” (By “survivors”, I assume he means “survivors of the Bloodbath”.) “And I wash my hands of the blood of whosoever amongst us dies, do you understand?”
Pip’s upper eyelids sag. “But of course,” she grunts, her voice a coarse rattle.
“Kelly, you go with Pip.”
Dishrag promptly snickers in a quaintly perfunctory sort of way, almost as if her snickers come from pity, only they lacked the overtness to be pity-laughs. Pip, in the meanwhile, snaps her lower eyelids so that they squeeze against her upper ones, and she cringes a little, as if she’s been whapped in the jaw. “But of course,” she spits.
“I’ll take Solana with me.” Digit extends his hand, and beckons Solana to his side; she does not hesitate in her obedience. “You go left, we’ll go right. We meet here before the anthem. Understand?”
Pip nods; like an owner quelling his unruly hound, Pip barks Dishrag’s name; the District 8 tribute only snickers in a bizarrely triumphant way, as if she knows something Pip doesn’t, and the two head for the nearest door on the left. Meanwhile, Digit and Solana turn their backs on their departing allies, and head for the nearest door on the right: the grand, velvet-lined, swinging doors to the dining room.
We’re given a brief chance to be reassured that the District 10 boy is currently safe from the sanguinary claws of Digit and Solana. In a clip that lasts approximately fifty seconds, we see the District 10 boy rush up to the door of the dining room’s men’s restroom, hesitate and decide that that was too obvious a hiding place, rush over to the women’s restroom, hesitate and decide that that was too ungentlemanly, run back to the men’s restroom, hesitate, and then finally dive into the women’s restroom, where he then crawls into a stall, and sits on the toilet, relieved and awkward all at the same time. He pauses, leans forward as if he’s about to bolt off the seat, and then leans back, his mouth a thin squiggle on his face. “I need a better hiding place than this,” he sighs, but he seems content enough to hide in a woman’s stall for the duration of the day. Which is, probably, a rather good idea, seeing as how Solana and Digit marched into the dining room the moment the District 10 boy dived into the women’s restroom. And the silly, lazy little thing probably doesn’t even realize that he saved his own life by doing so.
Meanwhile, in Slug’s kitchen, as they both sit on wooden stools, Slug Lev wipes Palanquin’s tear-drenched face with a paper towel, as she laments in brief gasps and chokes: “And – and Dishrag – she – just killed that boy from Nine – what was his name again?”
“Trit, or something. I didn’t know him very well. The only reason I know his name is because the people on the TV would say it, like at the reaping and such.”
“Yeah. Well – well she has these scissors, see, and – and somehow she can just – just toss ‘em – like the careers would do with the knives at the training center, remember? Like that District 2 girl did?”
“Diana. Her name was Diana. Like the goddess.”
“Oh,” Palanquin sniffled. “Dishrag killed her, too. Diane-”
“Diana.” His mouth wriggles a bit, and he looks down like a child being reproved for his naughtiness. “Sorry. Please, continue.”
“Diana was – was trying to kill Digit – and she almost did – but, then again, he was trying to kill her, and – and I don’t know what’s right anymore,” Palanquin wheezes, and her body trembles as she sucks in a harsh breath. “I mean – sure, they were all going to kill us – eventually – and it was only – a matter of survival, but…but then we went and killed them, and…and…What’s right anymore? I mean, what’s better, to just survive or die guiltlessly? But – but then – all the other tributes would have died, too, but now we’re going around and killing them…”
“Don’t say ‘we’, Pal. Don’t, if this will bother you. If you say ‘we’, you’re including yourself amongst a mix you don’t particularly like, and believe me, that won’t make you feel any better about it. It’ll just make you worse.”
Palanquin nods feebly, as if the muscles in her neck are giving her a wretched ache. “I just…” She closes her eyes, her mouth drops open for a moment, and then slowly and tenderly closes with a sigh. “I don’t know. I want…don’t want them all to be dead…I don’t want to be here…I just…want…to go home…I’m not…I’m not…” Her words collapse in a heap of fatigued silence.
As he presses the paper towel to Palanquin’s cheek with one hand, Slug reaches over with his other and enfolds it around her empty, unturned hand that sits like a flipped-over turtle on her knee. His small hand looks like a throw blanket that has been wrapped around a small child, a child desperate to get warm beneath the thin, shortly cut fabric. “You’ll get through it, Pal,” he murmurs, his voice as rhythmic and soft as a hushed lullaby. “We all will. It’s just a matter of will, is all. Everything’s a matter of will. Just get through it. The first step is to keep breathing; the next one is to smile. That’s all it takes. I promise. That’s all it takes.”
Like a scream of thunder on a cloudless summer’s day, the door to the kitchen bursts open.
The two children of District 6 flinch away from each other, and as if their chins are attached to a jerking string, their faces turn in quick unison to the door. In one instant, the sight – the idea – of Solana and Digit standing there together, both armed and both tense, and all knowing now that the play of the thing was to kill whoever really wanted to be king. One can almost see all that Palanquin has told Slug slap his hands empty and shove him off his stool and drag his hand to his toaster, which he had placed at the feet of Palanquin’s stool.
“Oh ho! I suppose you don’t recognize me, eh, Slug?”
I suppose he did not – now, however, all is clear in Slug’s mind as he looks up. “Digit!” he murmurs, his voice both perked and depressed by surprise.
A thin smirk slithers across Digit’s face. “I’m glad that you noticed before you busted my face with that toaster of yours.” His eyes crawl over to Palanquin. “And I see you’ve found our pack mule!”
Both of the Six tributes flinch as if he had thrown a punch at their respective faces; Slug promptly scowls, and grunts: “She’s not a pack mule – she’s a human being.” As he does so, Palanquin begins to shrink back, like an abused animal limping to the back corner of its cage.
Digit shrugs. “Fine, fine. Apples and oranges,” he says as he gestures dismissively. “I’m just glad you found her. We were quite worried about her, a few minutes ago.”
One of Solana’s eyebrows perks up. “We were?” she murmurs under her breath.
“Of course we were!” Digit exclaims suddenly, a little too jovially. “We take care of our allies! Each and every one of us!” He looks at Palanquin, who has now pressed the back of her hip against a sink on the back wall. His chummy smirk creases into a gentle grin. “We were afraid that someone had gotten you. Really, if I may ask, what were you thinking when you took off alone? You’re liable to be killed, that way! Safety in numbers, you know!” he adds with a mild drone of gentle patronization.
“I…” gasps Palanquin in her enthralling trepidation, her eyes shifting, her whitened hands tremulous. “I…”
“I don’t think she cares, if I may say so, Digit,” Slug pipes up, one of his little fingers held politely parallel to his chest.
Digit’s smile dissolves, and his eyebrows lift as if they’re exalting God. “Oh, really?” he murmurs. “Hm! What does she care about, then?”
Slug blinks, as if he’s surprised that the question is directed towards him. “Um…” He turns to look at Palanquin. “Um – that’s more for Pal to decide.”
Digit’s mouth suddenly leaps into the grin. “Hm hm!” he laughs with quiet triumph. “They’ve nicknames for each other. I like that. I like that quite a lot.”
Then Digit and Solana direct their full attention on Palanquin – even though it’s clear by her face that she’s too inundated with sweat-dousing terror for her to take on the arduous task of voluble conversation. However, for a moment, it’s as if all the others in the room are blind to her enthralling trepidation, and they leave her shuddering and dangling on the precipice of self-expectancy. Fortunately, this moment is a quick one, and it dies soon; for, oddly enough, it is Digit who saves her when he turns his attention onto Slug and says: “I suppose I ought to ask you now, while we’re in a moment of relative amity: have you reconsidered my proposal to you, Lion-heart?”
Slug turns his head a little too quickly to look at Digit, as if he thinks he has just made eye contact with someone he saw years ago. He blinks, as if in realization that that person with which he had made eye contact was completely new to him in every way, and he says with a polite smile: “Sorry, but I prefer being a loner, thanks.”
Digit smirks, and with a wrinkly nose he snorts: “Hmph! Preposterous – how can anyone prefer to be a loner? You know, statistically, it’s the ones without allies that are the first to die, Lion-heart.” He pauses, blinks, and smiles in a most gentlemanly chummy sort of fashion. “Are you sure you’re sure?”
“Yes. I’m sure.” Slug turns his gaze to Palanquin, and as he does so a new and healthy fire warms his smile. “Besides, I think I won’t be entirely alone anymore. I’d much like it if Pal would accompany me now.”
Digit’s eyebrows clench closer together, and he attempts an exchanged glance of discontent with Solana – who does not bother to acquiesce to noticing his attempt at exchange – and he says with a frown: “Oh – I was not aware that Palanquin was quitting our little gestalt.” (He finishes with relative relish, as if he’s proud that he knows the existence of the closing word.)
Slug shrugs. “I just now sort of thought of it, to be honest,” he says with a humble smile. “But, ah,” he adds, as he glances at Palanquin with ever-brightening hope, “if she wants to…”
“Yes! Yes!” Her voice is an explosion, shrill with shrapnel and fiery with terror, reaching up to the ceiling as if she is trying to call on God with her voice. “Yes, please, yes!”
Digit’s frown deepens. “Ah, well,” he murmurs, “this was not at all planned.”
“Sorry,” says Slug with a small, tense smile.
Digit casts his eyes to the ground, his eyes narrowing, as if to keep the thoughts that now bubble within his mind from seeping out of the whites of his eyes; then, his head springs erect, and he says suddenly: “Are you sure you don’t want to join us, Lion-heart? We would love to have you.” His frown ever deepens, and he casts a curt glance at Palanquin. “You and Symmetry here both.”
Slug’s smile grows, but becomes tenser now, as if he is bracing himself for something. “Oh, no,” he replies. “Not even if Pal here decides to rejoin. I – I don’t like packs, as I told you before, and…” He shrugs, as if he’s accepting the fact that an important cause has been lost to the opposition. He lifts his chin a little higher, and with a brighter smile, he adds brightly: “I wish you and your pack the best of luck, though!”
Digit only frowns as if he’s been slapped in the face; it is Solana, supposedly the less mature of the two, who receives the blessing and dismissals with kind words and honest smiles. “Same to you!” she chirps. She then turns to Digit and, in another surprise twist of changed roles, reaches out and gives his pants leg a small tug. “C’mon – it’s time to go.”
He looks at her and sneers as if he’s looking down at an annoying Chihuahua – but he turns as she turns anyway, and they both move to the door at the same pace. However, just as Solana passes through the door, Digit pauses, turns, and smiles at the two. “Well then, I suppose this is farewell. I hope you two suit each other well in the arena – but, ah, bear in mind that the next time we meet, I highly doubt that it shall be so…agreeable, as you might imagine. I hate to think of such a reunion, but, you know – this is the Hunger Games.”
Palanquin shamelessly shudders; Slug continues to smile as if he does not realize that it is a threat he is receiving. “Alright, then!” he chirrups. “I suppose we’ll see you when we see you!”
Digit’s smile curls into a smirk, and his confident blue eyes sparkle with a strange, unholy light. He does not turn his face from them as he extends his palm and sets it against the door and then proceeds to open it; he turns slowly, elegantly as he proceeds to move, and as he exits, he says to Solana, whom we can see faintly through the doorway: “Don’t go without me nex-”
The door swings shut then, slicing his words in half. There is a dull, stiff pause within the kitchen as faint words are heard behind the door, then silence. A minute at the most passes; then, a hurried, faint screech of a whisper is heard from Palanquin, hardly glib, but just enough for the context to be understood. “They’re coming…! We...leave!”
Slug blinks, and his eyebrows lift a little. “What?” he says, his voice loud compared to Palanquin’s shrill whisper.
“Shhhh!” Palanquin hisses, gesturing with her hands to emphasize the necessity of silence – though she adds in a slightly higher volume: “We need to leave! We need to leave now! They’re going to come back – they’re going to tell the others that we’re here!”
Slug tilts his head, as if this hypothesis only intrigues him – as if it doesn’t at all allude to any imminent demises. “Oh,” he says thoughtfully. He lifts his face up, and glances around the room. “I – I already sort of had an idea for this place, though…”
“That doesn’t matter! You won’t have time!” Palanquin insists, her eyes wide with maddened terror. “They’re coming, I know it, and they’re coming right now! We need to leave – we need to hide! Somewhere else – somewhere else!”
Slug’s eyelids flutter like two pairs of disoriented butterfly wings. “Oh,” he mumbles dimly, “okay.”
“Get what you need!” Palanquin demands, an edge of authority suddenly rising and sharpening her tremulous whisper. “And then we’ll go, okay? Now hurry!”
Like a man running to save another’s life, Slug shoots into action, as if the voluminous volume Palanquin’s earnestness has finally settled in. He gathers whatever necessities into his bag, he gathers his toaster into one hand, Palanquin’s knife into his other hand – and then they depart the kitchen, slowly, room by room, moving like cats stalking a mouse. As they move, Palanquin’s knife is returned to her, and she wears it on her belt; when they reach the lobby – which, fortunately, is now completely empty – she shudders, and her hand clenches into a rock-like fist around the handle of her blade. Slug notices her tremor out of the corner of his eye, and with gentleness making his features relax into a state of almost fragility, he reaches up and gives her arm a very gentle squeeze, and he holds her like this all throughout their crossing of the lobby. They ascend the stairs, pass a few floors, enter one, and then go to the first hotel room they can find – which they find to be unlocked, and they enter. An inspection of the room promptly follows suit – but all that really earns their interest is a key that sits idly on a nightstand that bifurcates the two beds of the hotel room. Palanquin snatches it up and shoves it into the keyhole of the door, and a very satisfying click is heard. She wiggles the doorknob for certainty and courage, and the door is steadfast in its refusal to open; however, Palanquin is not satisfied: she takes a chair and wedges its top under the doorknob, then takes a small table, and shoves it before the door. “There!” she finally breathes. “There – that ought to do it! That’ll keep ‘em away!”
Quietly, in the broom closet beside their room, Ayn Brookenford sleeps.
{DAY 3}
Overall History: In the railroad business, a "slug" is a dependent. It hasn't a prime mover, a will; rather, it is towed along by its "mother", is overshadowed by her, and trundles along briskly behind her, acknowledging how necessary she was, yielding to her completely.
"Lev" is the child of two languages, both of which have been long been festering in their graves by now. One of these languages is called "Russian", which was born in the filth of frost and communism and the fumes of vodka, but died when its mother country melted - or flooded - hard to tell, really. Lev, in melted Russian, is translated in Panemian/Newer English as "lion".
The second definition of "Lev" is one that comes from sands and heat and rabbis. The word has had its tail axed off; however, if you search hard enough for it, get yourself some glue, and reapply the hapless tail to its body, a truly worthy name is shaped from the concoction: "Levi" - which means "heart".
Now then - put it all together in a bowl, and apply a twirling spoon, and then mouth what comes out of it. Rub it on your lips and taste it; swirl it with your tongue, and consider the taste that blossoms in your mouth. Is it a gilded taste? A heavy taste? A strong taste? Does it empower you? Does it intimidate you? Is it worthy of being a prayer? Would you be worthy enough to be branded by it? Is it worthy if being your spine; the motor that moves your legs, makes you think, banks your breath?
Turn your face from the screen, and think about it - truly think about it.
Now turn around.
Now let me introduce you to someone.
*
Slug Lev had been conceived within the womb to become an aristocrat. Gold and silver and decadency ran in his blood, you see: long ago, before Panem, the Lev family was sprawled all across the United States of America, a royal family hiding under the votes of democracy. They moved regally, and they did no fear their silken regalia that they displayed prominently; their faces had been cold, but beautiful, like sixteenth century portraits. Their wealth and throne had been founded upon capitalism and transportation: they owned railroads upon railroads that were like steel veins stretching all throughout the country, their vehicles were the blood that pumped through them - the blood that kept the country moving, living, breathing.
The wars bled the country, however. Recession after recession; depression after depression - the aftermaths of crooked inflation after crooked inflation after taxation after taxation. People became poor; people become angry when they're poor. One mustn't be surprised that another civil war broke out - the oddest civil war ever, for to this day, no one can figure out who fought who, only that the Americans had set themselves upon each other. The veins of Lev Transcontinental were opened up and torn from the body; the murderers ranged from people who blamed the Lev family (or, at least, the ancestors that would lead up to the Lev family) for their poverty or men who split the veins open with military strategy in mind. Either way, the veins were open; the blood spilled out, as did the money of the Lev family - so did their legacy.
One small trinket survived the onslaught, thanks to a pair of crafty, aristocratic hands. How horribly unbeknownst to that particular ancestor how famous that trinket - that belt - would become; indeed, when he had wrapped his fingers round the belt's loop, he had believed that he was saving a piece of history, not of the future - and how wrong he was.
Ages past. Bygones by bygones by bygones. Panem was erected during this time; a revolution was fought and lost; annual mass murders became quite popular. During the latter era time, the blued blood of the Lev clan became mixed and muddled, till it became quite red, and quite middle-class: but the belt remained untarnished, and was guarded by every member of the family as if it were a holy object. One of these members was named "Slug", who would wear that sacred belt into his moment of triumph, if one dares to call it that.
Slug's creation could be described in terms of dominoes, as can any man's birth, life, and death. Jalopy Lev met Charabanc Ousier at a bakery that Charabanc had been employed at as a salesgirl; Jalopy appreciated said bakery, and commended its owner for his deft wisdom for price ranges and vigor for quality, and thus he became a regular; eventually, after several meetings, Jalopy and Charabanc became acquaintances, then friends, then romantic acquaintances. A marriage union came to be; a bun was warmed in the oven; and out popped a new Lev, one they named "Slug", in recognition of Jalopy's fondness for trains, as well as his union to them (for he repaired trains that had broken down, you see).
The infant was healthy, if not small. He grew, and was very happy in his childhood - not necessarily because of a pair of very fond parents (though one would be very accurate to describe Jalopy and Charabanc as such), or of a superior wealth status, but simply because he was. Slug was born a nice fellow, as several people are, and he was also born a very happy fellow, which several people aren't, unfortunately. Euphoria simply flowed through his veins - not to say at all that he was exceptionally hyper (when compared to other very young children), or slightly crazed, for Slug was simply cheery. He failed to see any reason to be otherwise; yes, he pouted when he was punished, and he glared when he was angered, but what made him exceptional, was that he didn't let the negative emotions claw their way into him. This fortunate trait followed him all throughout his childhood, through school, through life, through reaping, through prep week, through Games.
Jalopy Lev was Slug's paradox, in this way. Jalopy Lev was the sort of person who drank from a glass when it was half empty; his mouth was a cavern of grumbles, of scoffs, of profanities. When Jalopy looked at an eloquent vase, he saw merely a formation of matter taking up space; he saw no intricacy, no artistry, no greatness; if it was to break, then there was no need to frown over the pieces. When Jalopy saw human, he saw not a being of immense beauty, not because it truly was beautiful, but simply because it moved and breathed and thought and created - rather, he saw Satan, because he had seen the Devil's handiwork when the Peacekeepers had attacked District 6 during the Dark Days. District 6 had not been a fortunate place at the time, you see; indeed, if one wishes to put it into a slightly bold, historical perspective, one might describe it as Panem's self-made version of Nanking.
Directly prior to the invasion of District Six, Jalopy and Charabanc had just become newly weds, and the days of their honeymoon would be marked by Charabanc's place of work being demolished by an airplane's bomb, the trade routes between the districts that had filled Six's many bellies being upturned and ruined, and a mass of Peacekeepers that marched about the walls of the district, so clustered together and their uniforms so white that they looked like a giant cloud that had come down from the sky and now floated close to the ground. The cloud would burn down the walls and the soldiers that had guarded it five days after they had arrived; many of the fiery tongues would stretch outward and gut and blacken several other buildings that had dared to reside so close to the wall. After the fire came the Peacekeepers; they leapt over shattered walls and tattered bodies; they shot down civilians because they were there; those who weren't shot wished they had been later. Jalopy was not blind to these atrocities, unlike his wife, who would walk through the carnage as if she strode through an empty hallway. The atrocities became worms that burrowed into Jalopy's skin, and he became riddled by them, and he permitted this. Charabanc did her best to coax the worms out, but the parasites insisted, and their host refused to listen. The world was easy; humanity was evil; hope could only be manifested in the forms of his wife and, eventually, his son - but even hope in the latter would crumble away eventually.
Charabanc, on the other hand, paid little attention to public atrocities, but she noticed several private tragedies. Mrs. Lev was, in a sense, a selfish person, in that she failed to acknowledge the hardships of those whose names she never heard of, and whose faces she had never seen. For example, if one was to tell her that District Seven's trees had all been burned into ashes by a horrific wildfire, and now the district's economy was on the verge of permanent ruin, Charabanc would look at the person who had reported this infamous tragedy to her, and merely blink, and then return to what she was doing. However, if one was to tell her that - for example - her mother had passed on, Charabanc would have felt a most terrible sense of hysteria, and weep for weeks. That was the sort of person she was, and, throughout the Dark Ages and the Siege of District Six, that was what protected her mentality.
Slug Lev was neither of his parents - though, if one truly wished to compare parent with child, one may find it easier to compare Charabanc with Slug, in the sense that it was difficult for either to become psychologically rattled. However, as I have told you, Slug failed to hate or to cry because he was too happy to do such things. He simply couldn't let negative emotions eat him alive; nip at him a little at some points, of course, but to be devoured by them - it was simply not possible, surely! Plus, unlike his father, Slug loved the world, and he loved humanity. He had always loved other people - that was simply his way; however, as he matured, he began to recognize why he loved his race so. Indeed, the acknowledgements and musings rather opened up a philosophical door for him, in that - along with wondering why he loved people - he began to wonder about other things, such as why people hated other people and if that was moral or immoral; he also wondered about morality and its necessity, and he considered life and what he was meant to do in it. Indeed, one might say that Slug was quite the thinker - which was not surprising at all, for the boy wished to become an engineer at a very early age (when he was five years old, in fact!). Not a train engineer specifically, but an engineer in general: one who could design and redesign and invent and build the world's motors.
The love for engineering was birthed when his father took him to work one day. Jalopy presented his curious little son with an engine whose wheels had stopped working, and before Jalopy began to repair it, he spent at least an hour showing Slug this piece and that piece, how this works and that works. Though other children would have tuned out after a few minutes, Slug found it impossible not to be interested by what Jalopy showed him, though, admittedly, he found it hard to understand a few things. But he came to understand as the years went by and his budding mind sprang in growth, and as his father (and eventually his mother, also, when she was employed to provide fuel for stopping trains) continued to bring his son to work, a fascination with mechanical objects was manifested (or perhaps it had always rather been there, sown into Slug's DNA), and a want to create and power fueled Slug's scholastic endeavors during his youth.
This desire was Slug's only romantic endeavor; he had never had a crush that was human, and he had never had a girlfriend that he could feel and speak to. His love were the trains and the machines, as well as his future, for he knew it was to be a good one. Even in his adulthood, when he took a fancy to Capitol women, his heart's main priority was technology and the future - both his own, as well as the world's.
*
When Slug was twelve, he had no nightmares, he did not cry, he did not shudder when he entered the district plaza, nor did he even wince when the Peacekeeper there pricked his finger.
I mention this because it's such a common occurrence for children of twelve years in Panem to feel these intense emotions, and experience this horrific strain. Slug, on the other hand, did not worry one bit, for he knew that he would not be called this year, that year, or the next; he already had future planned and readied, and the Hunger Games was entirely uninvolved with his plans. Thus, Slug felt no need to experience angst - though his parents certainly did, a fact that bugs Slug to this day. It was absolutely horrific, you know, watching his parents drift around him as he happily ate breakfast, noticing the red streaks that banded his mother's face and the way his father looked at him as if all hope was lost. That was what tortured Slug that day - the reaping could go to Hell! He just wanted his gosh darn parents to stop being so...so...melancholic. Because melancholy puts such a stopper on life, you know? Life - which is marked by joy and triumph - is shut down by such sadness as the one his parents had experienced, and it's absolutely grueling to watch the ones you love have their lives temporarily paused by such cadaverous grief, you know.
But Slug knew better, as he would for the next three years of his life. He knew that worrying was pointless; he knew that the possibility of his name being pulled out of that bowl was smaller than he was. Thus, he freed himself from all worry, in that shrugging fashion of optimists, and chastised his parents with "You sees!" and "I told you sos!" But no matter how often Slug would chant these little, smiling, happy quips, his parents never dared to smile once during reaping days.
His parents were enigmas to him, in those days; he never could fathom how they managed to survive under the weight of pessimistic oppression they put themselves through - especially his father. Jalopy Lev was the antithesis of all happiness, of every ideal that Slug possessed. Indeed, even when reaping day was over and through, Jalopy refused to grin, except on very special occasions. How could anyone live like that? Slug often thought, usually after his father had completed a tirade about society.
When Slug was ten, one of the older children in his school had taken her own life. The news of the self-murder was like a wildfire, burning into the ears of every parent, of every student; the tongues contained several details, all of which were snippets of thoughts from that tormented soul, only the ones focusing on politics being suppressed from the ears of the school. As it turned out, most of her ideals had been consumed by this bizarre hatred of existence, this hatred of herself, this hatred of others; and, soon, it became evident why she brought the knife to herself.
By matter of misfortune, Slug's little ears snatched these details, and, for the first time in his life, he knew a desire to flee from the world. For not only had the recorded ideals of the suicide frightened his young, cheery senses, but also because of the way the ideals reminded him of his father, and how often he would grumble about others - and, sometimes, himself. And, ever since the news of that suicide had splattered Slug's mind like a bloodstain, a shudder would pass through Slug's body whenever his father screeched, "I just wish that they would all die! Every single one of them!"
During times of sober reflection, Slug would ask Jalopy about his cynicism; he would inquire as to how he could stand it, being so pessimistic, and what made him last through the day. All of which were personal questions - the sort that Jalopy Lev almost never answered, unless they were asked by his wife. But, one day, when Slug was fourteen and he had asked Jalopy how he managed with his hatred of life and humanity, Jalopy turned his face towards his son with a face as tense and grim as a tombstone. He had paused, his eyes thoughtful but his mouth drawn up in a tight line of concern, and Slug was right to assume that his father was evaluating something - whether it was himself, his son, or his answer, Slug knew not, but he figured that it was one of those three. Finally, Jalopy turned, and murmured: "Because I'm a Lev."
Slug blinked, and his head tilted. "So am I. What about it?" (A typical, fourteen-year-old sort of question.)
Jalopy furrowed his brow, and his head swung around. "Don't you know then, squirt?" he snorted, a touch of condescension making his voice rather imperious. "Levs are the toughest sort of people there are; they can endure anything. Take our ancestors, for example; it is a vaguely noted fact that we were once the richest family in all the land, until shit went down. And I should know, too!" He nodded his head in a self-assured sort of fashion.
Though the tale of the Lev's ancestors ruin had surrounded Slug since the day he was born, hearing it again - and in the voice of his father, who had always told the tale with such a relish of pride, even though the story itself had grown quite vague over the years and the facts having been obscured (a detail that most pessimists would have regarded immediately and then would have thrown the tale in the trash as promptly as possible) - made Slug's face beam into a grin, and he could not help but permit a cheer trumpet from his throat.
If Jalopy had been like any other man, he would have smiled; but such was not the case for him - instead, his face became rigid again, its previous imperiousness now being shed, and he looked up, away from his son, and he rumbled: "Our name means 'lion-heart'. Did you know that?"
Slug had not, and this sudden enlightenment on the origin of his surname made Slug blink, and he was muted by a strange solemnity that comes with a bizarre revelation. One of those revelations that one stores within his heart, though he knows not why; one of those that makes him feel special, though he doesn't understand it; one of those that is like the meaning to life, in its obscurity and in its profound hope or dismay, depending on the perspective. And, so, in acknowledgement to this strange revelation, Slug took up this news and stored it within his mind and heart. He would only take it out on certain occasions and inspect it, let it warm him if he was cold. For he knew that it was important, though he didn't know why - the only reason that he decided this was because of this vague ability that idealists and romanticists share to make something so obscure so wonderful.
*
He knew the girl. She wasn't his friend or anything...No, no she was his friend - in a way...
She just seemed so...so...not there...
Her name was Palanquin Symmetry. The district and the world stood in a plaza of industrial grey coated in blood red balloons and fascist arrogance. A sleepy escort tottered and bumped around and yawned, and somehow, Slug felt sorry for him. He felt sorry for both of them - all who stood on that stage. Palanquin, the escort, the mayor, the other district officials...they all simply seemed...not there...
He was fifteen, and the shortest District 6 secondary student on record. Little had changed his cheery demeanor, since his chat with his father about the Lev lineage. Except he was softer now - not in cheeriness, but merely in his perception of his father. The way his father had spoke, of how his blood gave him courage through the rants and the depression - it had made Slug wonder. Wonder about how other people made through life, and wonder about his own - if, perhaps, he wasn't taking his existence seriously enough. Though, upon further thought, he didn't necessarily feel such was the case - how serious can one truly be about life and survive, really?
The escort tottered and dimpled up to the boys bowl. A slip of paper was lifted like a sagging flag in the air. The other boys shifted and fidgeted around Slug; a great murmuring ensued, like a hundred prayers being fired off at once. Slug stood his ground; his mouth was set. A shaky inhale whimpered deeply into his nose. He didn't bother to take life seriously, or whimper to himself, "It's me. It's me." He only thought: "I hope the boy looks like he's there."
It was like his last breath. For when the projected yawn billowed forth, a mental faint, almost a stroke of the mind, simply snapped his consciousness. There was a vague sense of cheating about it all.
His mind was darkness - all he could perceive was darkness. He didn't know how long he was in this numbed darkness
*
But You're My King,
And I'm Your Lion-heart.
Alias or Nickname: Raeoki the Sloth.
What District Are you?: ...Six?...Or, if you're referring to post count, I'm in District Eleven, currently.
Why Did you decided to make him/her: To be honest? I got tired of angsty victors. Seriously. Everything Hunger games-related (fandom or otherwise) seems to crawl with depressed or angry victors. And I can see why; truly, in a real life setting, the Hunger Games would be very brutal upon the human mind, and very difficult to recover from, and at the same time characters with such backstories can be fun to write (and also fun to read, if written correctly) and can help the writer explore the human spirit and mentality. It's a very fun experience that can be beneficial to the way one looks at the world and can help a player expand upon his writing ability. However, I'm getting tired of seeing every other victor struggle with alcoholism, with depression, with anger, and with certain mental difficulties. So, I decided to write about a victor who attempts to rid himself of his traumatic chains in his own way: by the energy of his personality. (And who better than to play him than Fix-it Felix Jr.! <33333333)
