off to the races | derby race

[MATTIO]

n o v a k . a d r i á n

It's just how you envisioned it to be. You have been mayor for only a few months, and in that time you've managed to filter through enough enthusiasm within District Ten to draw everyone to the first derby. The turnout's a bit higher than expected, which is only good news for you, as more people means more participation and more participation means more money. District Ten's standard resident isn't rich by any means, but pooling all of this money, as well as Capitol sponsors, should be enough to fuel any of your future projects, be it for the government or personal. Lillia sent you another payment request last night, five hundred dollars, fifty more than last month. You stashed the letter away in your desk drawer, telling yourself you'll get to it later.

Your cut of this weekend's events should cover it just fine.

You stay in your private tent with Uncle Elio and Aunt Drea. August's heat is scorching, so you've bided your time between talking with Capitol visitors and cooling off with half your clothes stripped away in the tent, cold washcloths and fans giving a temporary but much-needed chill. Elio and Drea go over your earnings from the backdoor gambling they've set up for this afternoon's race. "Could always be more," you say, peaking out to see the extravagant Capitol visitors inspecting District Ten's vendors like they're ant farms. "The Capitol fuckers throw money aren't like its nothin'. Cause for them, it is." You pick up your shirt and button it neatly. "They bet on kids' lives, after all. A horse race's nowhere near as creepy." Elio promises you that he'll get feet on the ground to secure any last-minute bets from the Capitolites before the race begins.

You wet your face with the washcloth one last time before turning your hat forward and walking out of the tent. You shake some hands and share some smiles and pleasantries on your way to the stand. The horses and their jockeys are getting ready at the starting gates, meaning you've got to hurry up to the tower at the finish line. The caller welcomes you and goes over the list of protocols and etiquette for what to do and how to do it. Your eyes wander and they speak frantically to fit in all the information. All you watch for is the green and silver exchanges going around from booth to booth and market to market. You smile and lean up against the half wall, nodding along but not listening.

They then ask you to quiet everyone down with a speech and prepare the race to begin.

"Friends, locals, guests, and visitors alike: I want to welcome y'all to this weekend's main event: District Ten's inaugural Derby!" This has been a long time in the makin', and we've got some great horses in tonight's final. We'll be starting momentarily, so make sure to get a good view and everyone racing, get ready to ride!"

There's a brief pause and then you've got your hand on the bells string, ready to roll. You haven't bet on any horse in particular, but you know that no matter who wins, the payout will be strong. Once all of the jockeys are in position and the crowd is silenced waiting to begin.

Three… two… one.

One of the volunteers presses the button to release the gates and you rattle the bell. The caller begins to commentate.

Off to the races.

elegant

open to all;
for more information on the mechanics of the derby, please see this post.
if you have any questions, contact me directly.

[admin kay]

It doesn't hurt me.
Do you want to feel how it feels?
Do you want to know that it doesn't hurt me?
Do you want to hear about the deal that I'm making?
You, it's you and me.

Mace Emberstatt, middle-aged victor, nearly made it through the derby crowd without a single autograph request. Sure, folks still stopped and stared. A few waved. But he'd signed so much of District Ten in the last thirty-some years, his autograph was worth a penny, nothing more.

So when the young lad stepped in front of him, eyes wide and hat in his hands, Mace slowed. He was overdue at the pens and whatever stallion they'd picked for him - likely a proper show pony - would likely not be pleased by the delay. He fingered the outside of his vest pocket for the treats he'd hidden and then slowly, creaking, sank to one knee.

"What can I do you fer?" He asked, no trace of a smile, but his grey eyes as light as they could manage.

He scrawled his name, big open loops of it, across the brim of the hat and then hustled to the starting position. As predicted the stallion was in a proper fit, overworked and restless. Mace settled himself on the horse's back, unnerved by the lack of saddle. He liked horses. Loved 'em, really. He would have much rather made a career out of ranching than... whatever you called what he did. Victor-ing, maybe? But even that was better than being a jockey. He had no idea, none whatsoever, about how to speed his particularly animal to victory.

"Don't matter," he mumbled.

The horse snorted.

And like that, they were off!

And if I only could,
I'd make a deal with God,
And I'd get him to swap our places,
Be running up that road,
Be running up that hill,
Be running up that building.
If I only could, oh


running up that hill
-placebo-

[dars]

Speed Dice
hWSSA5eyKt1-50

Command Dice
1-50

Determination Dice
1-50

1-50·1-50·1-50