Tribute Interviews

[Baby Wessex d9b [earthling]]

Here is an optional interview you may choose to fill out in response to this thread after you have received your training score. Interviews will run from now until the start of the Games. Completing an interview is not mandatory, but it is highly recommended.

You may do this in RP style, as if your tribute were actually being asked these questions, or simply fill out the transcript of the conversation.

(The form is optional; you may create your own if you so wish to do so.)

[b]Name:[/b]
[b]District:[/b]
[b]Age:[/b]

[b]How confident do you feel about the games now that you've seen your training score?[/b]

[b]What has impressed you most about the capitol since you've been here?[/b]

[b]Do you have a special someone back home *nudge nudge*?[/b]

[b]What do you like to do in your free time?[/b]

[b]What is your family like?[/b]

[b]Do you miss anything in particular from back home?[/b]

[b]What's something you'd like to say to your friends and family back home? How about your fellow tributes?[/b]


[fomerly known as [tennis]]

Name: Almar Nichols
District: 12
Age: 16

How confident do you feel about the games now that you've seen your training score?

"Uhm.. not too hot. I mean, my score of 4 kinda sucks. But, there have been Victors from Twelve that won with low scores before, like Mr. Halt. So, we will see. I'll try my best.[/size]

What has impressed you most about the capitol since you've been here?

"Probably the sheer size of everything. Everything here is enormous. The buildings, the amount of jewels and food.. Just everything."[/size]


Do you have a special someone back home *nudge nudge*?

"Nah. I guess I'm still just looking for the right girl."[/size]


What do you like to do in your free time?

"I usually study. I'm trying to make a good life in Twelve, and I will never be allowed to work in the mines because my eyesight is too poor. So I have to find other means to be successful."[/size]

What is your family like?

"Well, for those of you don't know, both of my parents are dead. However, my parents that raise me now, my second Mom and Dad, are amazing. There is no one in all of Panem with a better heart than them.[/size]


Do you miss anything in particular from back home?

Let's face it. There's not much to miss in Twelve. But it is home, so I miss it. I can't wait to return.[/size]

What's something you'd like to say to your friends and family back home? How about your fellow tributes?

"To my family, I love you. I'll see you soon. To my fellow tributes, I do plan on winning these Games. If you die by my hand, please know that it was absolutely nothing personal. I just have to survive. And if I am to die by yours, I hope you feel the same. Happy Hunger Games everyone! Let's get this show on the road![/size]

[charade]

As the boy from seven ascended the stairs to the stage, he he felt the cold grip of anxiety in his stomach.This was the part that could make or break him even more so than the scoring of the judges, this was where the entirety of Panem would be introduced to him for the first time. Eager to impress, he let a small smile play about his lips as Caesar hyped the crowd.“Up next! The male tribute from district seven, Curtis Grant! Let’s have a warm welcome for the lad!”The roar of the crowd greeted him while he made his way to the seat.“Now tell us Curt, I can call you Curt right? You’re a big strapping boy from our lumber district, tell us, what’s impressed you the most about our humble abode?”Easing himself into the plush cushions, Curtis grinned, his escort had pressed him to be amiable and take everything in stride, something he was usually wont to do.

“Well, I’d say the trees.” “The trees he says? Not enough in your home?”This was punctuated with an over the top smile and peals of laughter from the assemblage of capitolites.“Care to explain?”Smiling indulgently, the grant boy replied.“If you need specifics, I guess I meant the colors. Back home, the trees are all green, its only in the autumn that we see reds and golds. Never seen a tree with purple leaves though. Or chartreuse. Why, I think the tree outside this building matches your hair!” Raucous laughter again. “What can I say? I’m always in style.

Now tell me, How do you feel about the score you’ve received? An eight is pretty impressive.”“I’d have to agree with you there why, its the same score Jana Hale managed last year, and we all remember the sushi she made out of that Kraken!”“Indeed we do! An amazing feat, sure to impress any significant other. Do you plan on doing the same for anyone back home?”"Nah man, I don’t have a girl at the moment, though I’m sure I have the attention of several of my ex’s.”

There was a low ooh from the crowd, as Flickerman chuckled softly.“They don’t know what they’re missing out on. Well there Mr.Heartbreaker, can you tell us about your family then?” Curtis’s face fell slightly at this, a piece of advice of from his stylist to play the sympathy card. “I’m the oldest of five siblings. It’s just us and my mother, so I’m the one that takes care of everyone. I hope they’re doing alright without me."Caesar nodded sympathetically; though Curtis felt is was about as heartfelt as the shine of his teeth. “Taking care of your family must not leave a lot of time for yourself. Are there any hobbies or things you like to do in your spare time?”

“Break hearts. What else?” This got the crowd going again, and even the host had to wipe away a mirthful tear.“My, my, we’re almost out of time. have you any final words for the people back home, or perhaps your fellow tributes?"Curtis laughed quietly as he turned to face the camera.“Colin, you better be keeping the rest of our siblings out of trouble. And the rest of you better be keeping Colin out of trouble. To the rest of you going into the arena with me, I know a lot of you have brothers and sisters back in your homes, though some of you are closer than others. Keep a level head. Because in this game of hunger, you either win or you die.”The last bit was really geared towards the Wolfe siblings that would be taking the stage after him, but he felt it applied to most. Play to win, or don’t play at all, I might add.

“Thank you, thank you. Curtis Heart-breaker Grant of district seven everybody! Up next we have...

[semper]

This crowd is like nothing you have ever seen before. It’s just a massive room full of people that understandably can be mistaken for colorful pieces of candy. There’s so many of them, all squirming around in their seat, never ceasing to move; heads twisting, jaws moving, arms shifting. Like a pool of water on a windy day – ripples going every which way, never staying still. It’s nothing like the opera house back home where the audience is almost eerily still as they watch you and your friends dance along the old wooden stage, bringing to life some alternate world far better than their lives in Panem. You bring to them an escape from the ever-looming Games, the starvation, the poverty, and give them the joy of seeing a good show and forgetting about all those dampening factors. The eyes of the Capitolites are upon you but not with the same love and affection that those in your District give you. These colorful people see you only as like a pet (so then is it really different than back home?

[/color]), their own little pet human. ”My human is better than yours!” “No, mine’s way better! Yours is weak!”

“Theseus?”

Your dark eyes slowly turn their gaze back to the midnight blue man seated next to you. He’s just one of them treating us like pets.[/color] You tense up as his unnaturally colored eyes examine you like a bug under a microscope. Questioningly you raise an eyebrow, gesturing for him to continue as he always does to carry on a conversation. “I was just asking how you feel about your training score. Not many people get a two, you know. Even the crippled boy got a higher score than you! That must feel strange.” As soon as he chuckled there was a chorus of snickers and snorts sounding from the rainbow audience. You try to hide the shame by ducking your head but it only makes it more noticeable, and for a few moments you’re quiet until Caesar prompts you to talk. ”It’s just… just a number… It doesn’t mean much.” Your response is quiet and reserved, followed by a quick small shrug. Your hand longs to reach up the sleeve of your tuxedo to scratch at the flaking burns but you stop yourself, shifting uncomfortable in the overly plush chair.

“Just a number, eh?” Caesar continues with a grin you would swear is sadistic. “But that’s how you get sponsors, you know. That could mean the difference between your life and death.” He pauses to let the words sink in and they do. I screwed up in there by not doing something else.[/color] Your head remains down, looking at the almost overwhelmingly shiny shoes on your feet. Singing is all you know how to do, though – sing, cook, and burn your skin. And clean. I can make any stain disappear.[/color] But what good will that do for you in the Games? You can’t sing your way out, you can only cook up whatever you can find, and you surely can’t clean your way out. It’s just a number, yeah, but it reflects everything that I am: nothing.[/color] Caesar’s voice cuts through to you once again. “Aw, come now. Don’t look so down. How would your family feel if they saw you like this?”

Family[/color] – but you don’t have a family. A blood one, anyway. Your mother disowned you, branding you right off as a complete and miserable mistake and therefore using you for her own gain. She forced you into what you figured to be normal for every child, but on the rare days you went to school, you quickly found out that something was wrong. You really were a mistake, you really were a failure, as your mother had so bluntly put it. You cowered down belly-up whenever she screeched at you, scrambled to please her in the dwindling hope that she’d love you the way the other mothers loved their sons. The nights were the worst though; whenever she’d snarl for you to stay hidden and not be an eyesore, you fled to the backyard underneath the willow tree, curled up tightly in a blanket on the ground. You left those cold nights behind you, though, choosing to venture through the streets for a good amount of time before finding your real family: the people of the Tempus opera house. They are your real friends and truly care about you even though you still have reserved feelings about their love. I’m not good enough for them.[/color] While you feel that you are undeserving of their good hospitality, you would still do anything for any of them regardless.

”They know I’m better than that,” you mumble, your gaze locked onto the floor. Caesar chuckles. “I bet you are, Theseus.” He says. “Now tell me. You’re a strapping little lad, do you have a little lady?” Even though your head is down you are sure that everyone can see the light shades of red filling your cheeks. She’s not very little.[/color] You had been horribly embarrassed the first time you ever met her because you were just a filthy street rat and she was the most beautiful person you had ever seen: her red hair, striking green eyes, her pale skin, and her beautifully slim body. You tried to keep your gaze from lingering on her for too long, occasionally jerking your head so that you would look at the ground. There was no way she could like you – you’re small, extraordinarily paranoid, a neat freak, and nearly suicidal at certain points. If anything you figured she would turn her back on you for being so unstable. I know for a fact she’d choose Cod over me anyday.[/color] She and Cod had history whereas you only had lust for her; not enough lust to make you do something but enough to drive you a bit mad – put you on edge every time you were near her, be afraid to look her in the eye for fear of her seeing how red your face got, feel your heart racing whenever she called your name. She never made fun of you for hardly being able to read and she often would even help you in the wee hours of the morning when you were on the verge of simply giving up because you couldn’t understand a word. She was always patient and kind, even taking the time to teach you a few things on the piano when she caught you up one night just poking away at the ivory and black keys. She went through the motions with you on some scales, a song, and then she even played one of her newest opera songs for you. Her voice mesmerized you and it still does.

Slowly you begin to shake your head at Caesar’s question. She would never love you the way you love her and you are going to die before you can ever say anything to her, so why mention her? But I’m going to die before she knows.[/color] Your head stops shaking and you pause. You know you won’t have the chance to see her again – I won’t have to stand face-to-face to her[/color] – so there won’t be any embarrassment as you wait for a reaction.

Caesar only pronounces a few syllables of a new question when you abruptly cut him off. ”Actually.” You lift your gaze up briefly, noticing that the audience seemed to all lean forward, eagerly awaiting for the reason you cut off the national spokesman. To you they looked as if they were anticipating the climax of one of the operas, where the main character either makes a fatal mistake or a decision that turns the entire storyline around. The realization hits you as you look at Caesar, his entire stance willing you to speak again. It all works just like an opera.[/color] While the lives of twenty-four people are on the line, it’s all just a show. The costumes, the makeup, all the pizazz – just an opera on a much larger scale with an unbelievably huge audience, most of whom probably want you dead so their loved one can return. You shift uncomfortably again underneath Caesar’s scrutinizing gaze, your hand itching to slither up your sleeve and claw at the irritating cloth on your healing burns. Your hand must have moved absentmindedly because Caesar’s attention quickly drops and you realize that your hand with the blackened fingernail tips is near the opposite shoulder, so you try to play it off as if you hand intended to lay it on your collarbone, which you do, squeezing lightly to relieve some of the tension. ”I, um… I do like someone, but… but she doesn’t know it.” Your voice shrinks away at the end and your body reflects that, sinking down and back into the sofa. A smile appears on Caesar’s face now that he’s gotten something out of you to work with, so he quickly presses down on the subject. “Oh, do tell us, Theseus,” he says, leaning on the armrest closest to you. “Who is this mystery girl?”

The only person who knows your secret is Cod. You had gone to him one to discretely ask for advice on how to go about letting her know that you like her, and though he didn’t show it, Cod knew exactly who you were talking about the entire time. He had even gone so far as to suggesting that he could come pretend to be the bad guy so you could swoop in to be the good guy and swoon her, but you quickly shot that idea down. Now, though, you almost wish you had gone along with the little role play. At least then she’d know and I wouldn’t be stuck announcing it for the first time to her in front of Panem.[/color] A knot twists up in your stomach as you lower your hand to your lap, avoiding Caesar’s pressuring gaze. He wants an answer, no doubt – something he can whimsically twist into a story that the candy-colored, whisker-faced Capitolites will soak up eagerly. You’re worried about what the blue haired man may turn this into, but at this point in time you’ve already given too much information to back down from it; and even if you did, either Caesar or someone else will pressure you into giving an answer. He raises his eyebrows while waiting, though he’s impatient. “Aw, come on Theseus. You don’t want to leave us all hanging, now, do you?” A few voices wail up from the massive crowd, demanding an answer. The little sliver of confidence you had had earlier fades away as more voices join in, followed by another plead from Caesar. Almost instantly you feel cornered, trapped by monsters that must have been vomited up by rainbows and enjoy watching children slaughter each other. The pressure of all of them suddenly overwhelms you until you just yell, ”Mercury!”

The name pleases the crowd but terrifies you. Your widened eyes stare blankly ahead at first and then at Caesar, who appears satisfied with himself. This is much worse than telling her just face-to-face.[/color] Thousands of pairs of eyes are still locked onto you, and as much as you’d like to just silence yourself, you know they want more. ”I work with her. I’ve known her for a while.” The fragments of personal information steadily keep calming the monster of a crowd, and for the first time since you’ve been in the Capitol, you smile. ”She has the most amazing voice I’ve ever heard and never fails to get a pitch right in a song. And… she’s incredibly patient and kind, too.” You’ve managed to snag their attention, only because the Capitol is a sucker for doomed love. ”For instance, I don’t really know how to read but she’d stay with me for hours just to help me along word by word so I’d learn, and she even took me in off the streets. Gave me a home and a way to start over.”

Caesar’s facial features relax, once again appearing satisfied with himself. He’s gotten more out of you than Cod had – though that’s an entirely different circumstance[/color] – and now it’s over. One of my secrets just poured out to Panem. Wonderful.[/color] Though you’re glad to finally let Mercury know, you wish the situation was different. You wish you were back in Six, sitting on the bench in front of the large black piano where Mercury had spent hours teaching you how to play it and where you had sat for many more hours scribbling down words you could barely remember how to spell, stringing them together into a song that meant so much to you but hardly anything to anyone else, matching them to certain sounds from the ivory and black keys.

The blue man reaches a hand out to you and you hesitate for a moment before accepting it, your hand being nearly crushed in his tight grip. “Was a pleasure to speak with you,” he says, standing up and pulling you with him. “Good luck, little lad.”

[/blockquote][/justify][/size]

[Danny]

hold it i'm about to drop off
let me tell you my last thought
drift into a deep fog
lost where i forgot to hold it
i can feel you most when i'm alone

Ever since you came to the Captiol, it's been a whirlwind. With Training almost every day, which helped enough to give you a 5, and having to form an alliance, and just handling all this. Especially when you can't fall asleep at night. So, Alaska, a breather would be nice, but there isn't any time for that. Jacquelyn (your escort) still hasn't talked to you yet just hours before your supposed to be on stage, Alaska, so instead of waiting for her to come to you, why don't you go to her? As you get off the couch you were lounging on, you think of where she could be, but as you get up off the sofa, your attention and eyes are averted to the scene outside the window. You can easily tell it's not that different from anything you'd see outside your window back in Seven - except your higher up - but it's brighter. The usually pinks, browns, grays, blacks, and beige are replaced with yellows, oranges, greens, blues, and purples. It's just strange how they walk around, most likely at the same pace as the people in Seven, but with more confidence in their selves, like an unexpected illness won't come rushing around the corner in disguise of a prima donna. And then all of your attention is turned to some petite voice calling your name. "Alaska?!" You weren't sure where Jacquelyn was, but it saves you time from looking for her. Even though your eyes keep shifting back and forth between the city and her, you can notice Jacquelyn scrambling towards you in heals and a skirt, which doesn't look easy to move fast in. Now she's motioning with her hands to sit back on the sunset-orange couch. "Sit down Alaska," - again, her hands waving you towards the couch (and now you notice the bottle of wine in her hands) - "We gotta talk about your interview!" Alaska, wouldn't you say she sounds a little too excited knowing that you're probably going to die in the next few days?

"What is there to talk about?" You ask, even though the answer is obvious. Even though your watching her mouth for an answer, her hands end up being the ones who move, popping the cork off the wine, pouring the purple juice into to glasses. "I'm not sure if this is for you or not," Jacquelyn whispers, obviously talking about the wine, "But let's just keep this a secret." Jacquelyn giggles, and you realize you haven't laughed for a while, and you haven't had a drink in a while, either. That's about to change. You reach for the glass closer to you, and take a sip. The familiar taste fills your mouth, and it reminds you of that grape cough-syrup you used to take, but sourer and warmer in a way. "So, Alaska, I have a few questions for you." Nod, Alaska. "Alright, shoot." As you take another sip of your wine, you tell yourself you can't get drunk, nottonightnottonightnottonight. "First off, do you know what you're going to wear yet?" Alaska, how could you forget about that? Did you expect to be interview in sweats and a t-shirt? "Uh... no. I think I'm supposed to meet Narvila in a..." - a pair of eyes look for a clock - "I think about thirty minutes?" That sounds about right. Jacquelyn and you take synchronized sips from the glass, and you don't feel a tad bit tipsy yet.

"Alright. But, most importantly, what's your angle gonna be?"

That, you have thought about. There's many acts you can preform such as a comedy act or being sexy, but those aren't really you. Also, attitudes such as hostile or being over-confident are options, but the first one doesn't seem very fun, and the second one just might get your ass killed early. The only one that seems to be an appropriate option for you is some type of sarcasm show, even though you don't know if that'd make you funny or a bitch. "Well..." you say, taking a sip of the wine (which is starting to taste a bit better), "I thought of being sarcastic?" Answering Jacquelyn's question with another question, you feel kind of odd and childish, but you want her approval first. "Hmm... I could see that." Jacquelyn looks at you up and down, as if your personality is showing through your skin (and the sad thing is, that's how most people think). Take another sip of your wine, Alaska, your starting to get a little thirsty. She nods at you approvingly. "I could definitely see that, just make sure you don't get carried away." You get what she's saying, right? That you can't be a total bitch because you want to make a good impression, you need sponsors. The rest of the chat with Jacquelyn is small talk, like what you think of the other tributes and your alliance. By the time Narvila comes to fetch you, you're feeling a little dizzying (and giggly). Also, you feel closer to Jacquelyn, like all the other people who were always around you were some type of force, keeping you two apart. It felt nice, didn't it Alaska, to talk to someone freely? But, it seems it's Narvila's time to have you, so you have to say your goodbyes to Jacquelyn for now. "I'll see you soon enough, honey." You decide it doesn't matter where, because she's right.

Narvila guides you to a little room and tells you to strip, so you do. You slightly blush while Narvila inspects your naked body, but you're not sure why. Of course, there is the insecurity of how nice her body is compared to your frail body. "I love your hair, it's so easy to work with, so I really want to make your hair shine." Alaska, she has a point. Your thin strands are very easy to create a master-piece with. Also, since your hair is naturally straight, it's rarely ever tangled. "As for your body, you're skinny, but not underweight. And you have a large bust" - that comment makes your cheeks turn especially red - "So I tried to find a dress that would accent both your body and bust." For the first time, you notice the dress hanging on the door behind you. Narvila takes off the cover and exposes a green dress, and places it in front of your body, probably imagining you in it. Being held on the same hanger as your dress is a brown halo, and at first you think it will be your necklace, but Narvila places it atop your head, the cherry on a naked cake. The ring around your head is like a tree, Alaska, little leaves poking out of it (the same shade as your dress) and even though it's a very small part of your outfit, it makes a big difference. Narvila takes off the crown, and you can't help feel like it took away all the power and confidence out of you. Deciding you look clean enough, Narvila decided you didn't need to take a shower, so you follow her next instruction. "You obviously can't wear that bra of yours, seeing it has straps, so take this one," - she hands a bra to you, pulling it out of a basket - "I'm guessing your underwear is fine to wear, unless you want others?" You shook your head. "Okay, no. I'm going to slip you into your dress first, so your make-up doesn't smear," Nod, Alaska, so she knows your answering. "Then we're going to top you off with the band." As you slip on the new bra and the slightly old underwear, you can't help but think how beautiful you will look. Even though you're not sure how your make-up is going to look, Alaska, you're trusting Narvila enough to know it's going to be perfect. "Thank you." Your words sound small, Alaska, but they're very big. Narvila just looks at you and nods. "It's my job." Narvila pulls the dress over you, and you decide to examine your features in the mirror. "Oh! I forgot to mention your shoes; they're just going to be brown flats." She reveals them to you and they're not beautiful, but they definitely go with your outfit. Motioning you to sit, Narvila looks rushed, but she also looks pleased, like she knows this is what she was meant for. Too bad you're probably never going to know what you're meant for. When Narvila is done with you, she only has a few words to say. "I gotta say, your long brown hair and chestnut eyes made this so much easier on me." And to think she liked you for your personality.

coming home cause i want to
hang out with a starlet
stare up at the ceiling
preview of a screening
flashback of a feeling

"Please, give a warm welcome to our District Seven female tribute, Alaska Putley!"

Claudius Templesmith has a way of making people look good, Alaska, so don't make him look bad. As you walk onto stage, you're honestly not nervous. The wine is out of your sister, no longer floating like you thought you were, but you look beautiful. "Alaska, you look be-a-you-tiful!" The crowd responds in cheers - probably agreements, and Alaska, you feel even better. "Well thank you, Claudius, but I think I'm a little too young for you." Really, Alaska? The only thing you're thinking is cornycornycorny. The cloud seems to disagree, erupting in cheers and laughter. Your eyes shift between Claudius and the crowd, and Claudius smiling and the crowd roaring makes you feel wonderful. For the first time, you realize even if you are on your way to a slaughterhouse, this will be the experience of your life. Thoughts of Cygnus and your dad and your mom are replaced with how pleased everyone is to see you. "So, can you tell me how confident you are now, seeing how you got a 5 on your private training score?" Wow, that was kind of a stab to the gut, wasn't it, Alaska? It really isn't the best thing to say to someone under such circumstances, not that you expect Claudius to know better. "There have been worse scores... but you know, there have been Victors who had received scores like a 3, so I don't know if the score really means anything." People mumble in the crowd, Alaska, either agreeing with you or talking about the victors that have gotten low scores or people who got higher scores than you but it doesn't really matter. Claudius nods.

"Tell me, Alaska, what's your family like back home?" Suddenly, Alaska, you have an idea. You were planning on playing the sarcasm card, but about the poor girl with a dead mom? That would surely get you sponsors. "Okay, I have a dad and a sister." Claudius nods and the crowd just mumbles, again. "Can you elaborate on that?" Tears start to form in your eyes, both because it's what you have to do and it's just what you do when you think of your mom. "My mom died when I was young, I was seven. My little sister was just three. For a while," - you pause to wipe your tears - "We were struggling financially. My mom made most of the money in the house. Then, my dad got a new job, far away," - good thing this makeup is water-proof - "And I've been taking care of my sister and me. I rarely see my dad anymore, and my mom is gone. And Cygnus, my sister, is all I have left, she's all I have left. I have to win, for her." Alaska, don't cry. Please, Alaska, you can't. You have to look strong. "Well, Alaska, we wish you the best of luck, and we all hope you win, for her." The sadness that was just inside you has turned to some type of rage. "I bet you say that to all the tributes you feel sorry for." Claudius, and the crowd, seem confused as to if you're being serious or not. Claudius decided to laugh it off, and so did about half the crowd. The other half looks dazed. Alaska, you have to calm down, you can't do this, not now.

"Onto the next topic; what has impressed you most about the Captiol so far?" Would you agree this is a tough one, Alaska? Your rude comment was laughed off last time, but let's see how this one goes. "Well, this is a hard one, Claudius. I mean it's all so perfect here. Perfect hair, perfect makeup, perfect people." Perhaps you drank more than you thought, or perhaps your just in a bitchy mood, but Alaska, you're being rude. "But I would have to say, the thing that has impressed me most so far, is how you guys care so much about how a person looks, and so little on how a person acts or feels." Claudius finally gets it, this isn't an act. This is you answering honestly, and the crowd gets it, too. They're shouting boos but you ignore them. "Well, Alaska, we appreciate your honesty." "Hah! I doubt it." Alaska. What have you done? Are you even thinking? Alaska. Alaska. Alaska. What's wrong with you?

"We only have time for two more questions, so here's the first of the two: Do you have someone special back home?" Claudius's attitude has sort of shifted. He's certainly trying his best to make you look good, but you're certainly not helping. You can't help but wonder if Claudius really thinks you do, or if he just wants an interesting conversation starter. "No." The cloud doesn't really respond, seeing that you gave them nothing to respond to, but Claudius certainly does. "Really, a beautiful girl like you? Not taken?" Alaska, you can't stand this man. He's so worried about making other people sound good he doesn't realize how creepy he is. "I already told you, you're too old for me." This has the crowd howling extra loud, maybe because they were holding it all in for a while. You can't help but giggle, and stare at Claudius. He doesn't look offended (on the outside, at least).

"Last, but no least, is there anything you'd like to say to the people back home? And what about your fellow tributes?" Of course you do, Alaska. You have tons of things to say but you have a limited time. So, you decide to do the more prominent good-byes now. "Dad, I miss you. We haven't seen each other in a while since we said our good-byes, and I don't think I'm gonna see you again. I love you." The soft side of you is showing again, Alaska, good. "Cygnus. I'm sorry. I should have never said yes. I just figured I could win but I can't, I know I can't and I'm sorry. I'm all you had left and now I'm gone." You wonder you're not breaking down in tears yet. "To mom, I love you. I miss you. I wished you saw how strong your little daughter is, how much she has grown. And how well your husband it doing. We miss you. I'll see you soon." Ahh, now the fun part, Alaska; your fellow tributes. "Well, to my fellow tributes, I'm not gonna win. I hope you realize you're not gonna win, either. But, even if you are crowned Victor, I doubt you'll be happy with your life. If you want, go and try. And if you die, and I hope you die with me, I hope you die trying." Don't you feel sophisticated, Alaska? "And most of all, if I kill you, I'm sorry. And if you're the one who kills me, it's okay." Well, at least you didn't screw up that part, Alaska. "Well, Alaska, that was really moving. We'll all looking forward to see you in the Games." You smile, Alaska, and even though you don't feel very good, you're happy because you finally accepted the fact that you're dead. "It was a pleasure talking to you, and maybe I will again after the Games." The crowd cheers, I bow, Claudius bows again, with me, and I exit the stage. You're tired, Alaska, so when you get back to your floor, you don't bother changing, you just take off your flats, dress, and halo and you lay in bed. That was the quickest you've ever fell asleep. It also might be the last time.

i heard you fuck
when i'm bored
i send vibrations
in your direction
from the satellite mind

{ooc: ew please don't read this thanks.}

[/color][/justify][/blockquote][/size][/blockquote]

[Deleted]

KIERA NIAMH DEMPSEY

i'm going away for a while, but i'll be back, don't try and follow me
'cause i'll return as soon as possible, see, i'm trying to find my place
but it might not be here where i feel safe, we all learn to make mistakes
and run from them, from them, with no direction
run from them, from them, with no conviction

The air backstage is stifling and muggy, humming with the heat generated by all the lights shining on the platform that all twenty-four of the Tributes will be marched across by the end of the evening, shown off to prospective sponsors like prized livestock at the Capitol’s sacrificial fair. At least, Kiera muses, looking down at herself, if she’s to be paraded around in an effort to drum up sponsors, she really does look the part. Her outfit was spun together by Kaiser’s skilled hands to Topaz’s specifications, a skin-tight bodysuit of black lace, accented with sharp, angular metallic jewelry and thigh-high boots with chunky soles. Her prep team has tamed her hair into something sleek and flowing, smoothing out the chaotic waves and feather-trimmed braids in favor of a multicolored waterfall that pours over her shoulders, framing a face that has been painted into an entirely new canvas, her smattering of freckles smoothed over with foundation and eyes thickly outlined with stark, bold strokes of black. Kiera knows enough of Topaz to trust her, even more so when her mentor explained what her interview costume’s purpose was: to show the world that she was fierce. Intimidating. Unyielding.

Dangerous.

“Kiera Dempsey of District One, everybody!” Caesar Flickerman’s voice booms over the sound system, and Kiera takes a tentative step forward, pausing to turn around and give Peridot a tense half-smile before setting her shoulders and striding across the stage with her head held high, thunderous applause roaring in her ears. Fierce. Intimidating. Unyielding. Dangerous, she reminds herself, slipping into the familiar persona of the avenging goddess Kaelen so carefully taught her to be as she shakes the sparkle-clad host’s hand with a firm grip, eyes leveled on the crowd and silently challenging them to call her weak. She maintains the posture of a queen as she lowers herself into the chair behind her, watching Caesar intently as he prattles on into his microphone. “Good evening, Kiera. Now, you are… seventeen, correct?”

“Yes, I’ll be eighteen this December,” Kiera affirms, subtly dropping a hint of confidence she knows won’t be missed in the assumption that she’ll be alive to turn eighteen this December.

“Excellent, excellent,” Caesar responds pontifically, reminding her more than a little of a walking one-man discotheque in his shiny suit with his loud, attention-commanding voice. “So, training scores just came out yesterday. A six for you, good, solid, middle-of-the-road score. How do you feel about your prospects now that you know how the Gamemakers rate you?”

Kiera’s lips press subconsciously into a thin line, brows drawing momentarily together at the reminder of the flashing six popping up next to her face on the broadcast yesterday. In that six she saw only shame and worry, her sisters fretting over her seemingly mediocre chances, Kaelen shaking his head in disappointment. She had panicked, and that is the long and short of it. She had gotten too wrapped up in the affairs and connotations of her training score, and in the end that panicked over-focus had been her downfall. The Arena won’t be like that. And Kiera intends to let the crowd know so.

“I think they underestimate me,” she says, her voice a low, stormy alto with something veiled and quietly dangerous floating behind it. “But that’s perfectly fine. Being underestimated is an advantage more often than not. I fully plan to outdo my training score by a long shot in the Arena.”

“Well, the Arena’s not for a while yet. You’ve been here in the Capitol for almost a week, so tell me, what’s made the biggest impression on you since you’ve been here?”

How spectacularly fake everything and everyone is, Kiera snipes internally, but insulting the people who could be keeping her alive in a few days’ time doesn’t seem like a very smart idea, so she bites her tongue on that particular bit of acerbic observation. Mulling the question over contemplatively for a moment, she finally answers, her enunciation careful and eloquent. “The thriving cultural life, I think. I have a sister who’s an artist and a cousin who’s a musician, and they would go absolutely wild here. There’s so much to see and do.”

The audience’s applause is indicative that they at least appreciate her false praise, and Caesar nods in tandem with their muted roar. “A sister and a cousin. Tell us a little more about your family.”

Kiera’s teeth grind together, a nervous glance shooting out to where Topaz sits in the audience, her only source of guidance through this macabre pageantry. Steer away from family stuff, the Victor had warned her earlier that day, making a point to emphasize its importance. The Capitol doesn’t care too much about what goes on in the Districts, but you can bet at least one person has heard about Kaelen’s little adventure and it only takes one person to start a rumor-mill that will lose you every single sponsor you’ve got. Internally grappling for a proper response while still keeping her face impassive, she speaks carefully, weaving a story while simultaneously treading on eggshells. “I’m the middle child in my family. I have five sisters. Moira’s the oldest, she’s twenty. Cora’s eighteen, she’s the artist I was talking about. My twin’s name was Siberia; she died in the earthquake that hit One last year. Then there’s Aurora, who’s a year younger than me and the sweetest person you’ll ever meet, and Blair, twelve, and she sews the most beautiful things. We’re very close.”

“They must have been upset to see you volunteer.”

The simple words bring back a barrage of memories that sear like a white-hot knife between her ribs and steal her breath, Moira’s tears, the look in Blair’s eyes that screamed murder, Cora’s frantic sobs and Aurora’s gaping disbelief. Her mother’s trembling hands, the silent betrayal etched into every fiber of her father’s being. The way Siberia’s spirit had felt like it was wrapped around her, tethering her to the ground of One with a hushed ‘please, no, I’m not ready to see you again yet.’

[/i][/color] For a moment Kiera’s mouth goes dry as cotton, hands clenching so hard in her lap that her perfectly manicured nails carve angry little half-moons into the delicate span of her palms. “Yes. It was hard on them, on all of us. But Ella is my friend. She hadn’t seen her brother in years and I…” Goddesses do not falter, the intimidating Queen of all Tributes doesn’t stutter, and yet Kiera finds herself taking an unscheduled pause to breathe and swallow heavily, trying to pull everything that sears across her skin back to the confines of her soul where no one else can touch it. “I couldn’t watch them go through that. I volunteered because I care about them.”

“They must be very special to warrant that kind of sacrifice,” Caesar nods, looking more somber than he has the entire interview before breaking the composure with a conspiratorial eyebrow wiggle. “But, pretty girl like you, I bet you’ve got lots of special people back home. Boys lining up on your doorstep?”

Kiera thinks fleetingly of those cataclysmic few seconds in the Justice Building, steady arms holding her in a crushing grip and being surrounded with the familiar aroma of cigarette smoke and the stale cookies that had surely been in the Detective’s pockets, a shuddering exhalation against her neck and feeling like a little part of her soul had been ripped away when he walked out of the room. But Goddesses do not have the weakness of attachment. Those with a Victor’s Spirit can’t afford the shortcomings of love. Stiffly, she shakes her head, voice a little more tense and strained than she means it to be. “No. There’s no one like that.”

“So, not the dating type then. How do you fill your time? Anything about One you miss?”

“I’m a musician. I like singing, I do it to make a few extra bucks now and then. Other than that it’s just school and keeping things running at home,” And ushering the souls of the depraved into the light of redemption through the waters of the most sacred kind of baptism. Kiera twists one of the gleaming rings adorning her hand around the circumference of a spindly finger, quietly contemplative. “I miss my sisters. I miss my parents. I miss pushing Blair on the tire swing and being a model for Cora’s photography. I miss playing chess with Moira, going shopping with Aurora. I miss how my mom sings when she’s making breakfast in the morning and how my dad always makes us discuss current events at dinner. I miss this little creek that runs behind our house that we go wading in during the summer. I miss my bedroom and my house and walking to school with my friends. I miss a lot of things.”

The crowd lets out a disgustingly sympathetic awwwww and she can almost feel Topaz’s warning glare drilling through her skull, snapping at her to tone down the sap factor as Caesar leans forward and places a consoling hand on her houlder. “Well, we’re almost out of time, Kiera. Anything you'd like to say to your friends and family back home? How about your fellow tributes?”

Kiera draws in a shaky breath, knowing that she is about to expose the true recesses of her weakness but not caring nonetheless. There are simply some things that must be said. “My parents and my sisters, I love you. Take care of each other while I’m gone and stay strong. Ella, remember my gift. Detective, I know you think I’m an idiot but this won’t be the first time I’ve proved you wrong. Kaelen… I’m going to make you proud. I swear. And to my fellow tributes…”

Perhaps this is her moment to finally prove herself as she turns to look offstage, meeting twenty-three pairs of eyes with a determined, solid stare that cuts like a blade of ice. “I’m coming for you. So watch your backs, because I’m going home.”

There’s an awkward, heavy sort of silence until the bell denoting the end of her interview rings, but then a soft, slow clap starts up within the throng, building and building until it becomes a tidal wave of adulation, sweeping her up like the arms of the ocean and affirming that she is exactly what Topaz told her she could be, what she’s known she is all along. Fierce. Intimidating. Unyielding. Dangerous.

“Kiera Dempsey, everyone!” Caesar crows, grabbing her bony wrist and holding her arm aloft as a triumphant grin spreads slow and feral across her features. She was wrong to ever doubt Kaelen’s wisdom when he told her she had a Victor’s Spirit, and the Capitol’s worship of her celestial status only serves to further prove his statement right. She can win this.[/blockquote][/blockquote][/color]

'cause i'm just one of those ghosts, traveling endlessly
don't need no roads, in fact they follow me
they echo me in circles, and now i'm told that this is life
and pain is just a simple compromise so we can get what we want out of it
would someone care to classify our broken hearts and twisted minds

[/size][/justify]

[kaylin]

Lydie felt exposed in the blue dress she was wearing. Goosebumps were covering her newly shaved legs and Lydie shivered, not so much from the cold but more from the heavy ball of anxiety that had settled itself in the bottom of her stomach. Her dress was much to short, in Lydie's mind anyway, and was totally skin tight and strapless. Every inch of the fabric hugged her skin tightly and she kept feeling as though she should pull either the top up or the bottom down. The only good thing about it was that it wasn't too flashy. It was a deep shade of blue and the fabric had ripples all the way down it. It reminded Lydie of water. Maybe it would've been better suited for a District 4 tribute.

She looked up at the basic clock on the wall in front of her and was surprised to see that her interview was coming right up. Time had passed faster than she thought it had. Lydie was pretty nervous, even though she knew she really shouldn't be. She had always excelled at public speaking. She had a remarkable talent for talking to people. It was just that this one interview could either make or break her chances for winning, getting back home, and ever getting past the Games. She needed to do this right.

Before the gong rang for her interview she got into her Games mode. She was no longer sweet, kind, happy Lydie. Now she was Hunger Games Lydie. She was focused, determined, polite to the right people, and absolutely set on winning. She wouldn't be overly noticed or overlooked. She would strike a perfect balance, showing that she would not overdo her cruelty but that she would not be trampled on either. She would be the ideal tribute. She would be the lucky one of the tributes to get out of the Arena still breathing. She sighed and as the bell rang for he to come upstairs she though, Here we go...

As she stepped out on the stage she fought to keep a small, self-assured smile on her face. The crowd's cheers were absolutely deafening and it was hard not to want to shrink back off the stage once she saw all of the Capitol's eyes on glued to her. She loved being in front of people who didn't know her because she could be anyone she wanted. All they knew was that she a rather short, thin girl who was fairly striking in appearance and that she currently had a very polite, but yet still determined small on her face. Lydie could make them think she was anybody she wanted to be. Truly anybody.

She sat down next to Caesar and crossed her legs. She gave a little smile to the crowd and waved slightly. Lydie had always been a real crowd-pleaser. After a few seconds of some more loud cheering and clapping, Caesar finally got everyone to quiet down and he started to talk. His voice was strong and pleasing to listen to. It wasn't quite as fake as all the other Capitol voices that had invaded her ears that week.

Caesar talks to the crowd for a few minutes, introducing them to the interview. Once he finishes he turns to Lydie, smiles his overly broad grin, and says, "So you pretty young thing, what can we call you?"

Lydie turns her pleasing smile from the crowd to Caesar and, connecting with his eyes, says, "Well my full name is Lydie Mansonna, but you can just call me Lydie."

"Lydie, what a beautiful name that is! And what district do you hail from, Lydie?"

"District ten. Home of Panem's slaughter houses." She says with a grin. Caesar laughs heartily at this, as does the crowd.

"Well then, I suppose you have quite an advantage over the other tributes then?"

"Well in the technical sense I guess, but I think killing people might be a bit harder than killing animals." She paused here, letting the crowd quietly think about what it might be like to kill an actual person. She knew they all thought she meant it would be harder because it would make her feel guilty. Suddenly she realized that it might seem as if she was weak if she just left it at that. Plus, whenever people thought about her they might feel depressed. So, to rectify her mistake she quickly added in a cheerful tone, "After all, a boy is quite bigger than a rabbit." Once the audience got her joke they all broke into laughter, relieved that they no longer had to experience that pesky feeling of guilt and sadness. Lydie felt slightly ashamed at that last part because she knew how her siblings would react. But she had to make the people in the audience like her. If they didn't then she might never see her siblings again.

Caesar laughed along with the rest of them and after he was done he said happily, "Well then, let's get on with the next question, shall we?"

Lydie nodded.

"Alright. Now that you've seen your official training score, how confident do you feel about the Games?"

Lydie thought for a second and then responded, "Well, I know five isn't the best score, but people have won with lower scores than mine. Plus, who knows, maybe I wanted to get a lower score. It would certainly help throw the other tributes off my scent. There's really no way of telling." She winked at the crowd.

Caesar chuckled and then said, "Great answer, great answer. Now, the question I really want to know the answer for, what has impressed you most about Capitol since you've been here?"

Lydie knew the answer immediately. "The people. I absolutely love all the people in the Capitol." She had rehearsed that answer many times. She knew it would make the crowd love her instantly. Capitol people were suckers for false compliments. The audience let out a few appreciative "aaaaaaawww"s and looked at her with interest, begging he with their eyes to continue.

"I mean, I don't think I've met anyone with more style, brains, or beauty than the people I've met in my short stay here in the Capitol. Everyone here is just so interesting and kind, it's amazing! And I truly thank everyone here for being so kind to me during my short stay here in the Capitol." Lydie gave a beautiful, gracious smile to all the people in the audience and as soon as she did the whole crowd burst into applause.

"Wow," Caesar began, "It looks as if you're doing immensely well in this interview, doesn't it?"

Lydie laughed slightly and said, "Oh, I'm sure I'm not anything special."

Caesar grinned and said, "Well, after that heartwarming compliment Lydie gave us I say we go on to the next question. I'm sure they'll all be just as pleasing."

Lydie smiled.

"So, Lydie, a pretty girl like you has got to have someone special at home. A boyfriend maybe?" He raised an eyebrow.

Lydie's cheeks turned red and she giggled slightly, "Well, actually no. Although I did have one hot romance going in first grade, but that's long gone by now."

Caesar and the crowd chuckled and then Caesar said, "Well I'm sure you'll get a romance started as soon as you return home, am I right?"

Lydie nodded and smiled. "Hopefully."

"So, we're onto our next question. What do you like to do in your free time?"

Lydie thought for a second and then said, "Well I've always loved to draw. It's sort of a passion of mine. I also love to spend time with our animals and my little sister, although I guess they could be considered the same things," At this point there were a few appreciative laughs, "And I also love to ride horses."

Caesar nodded with a smile and continued, "So what is your family like? They'd have to be pretty great to help raise a girl like you." He winked.

Lydie laughed and said, "Well my family's really nothing special. My mum and dad are always out so we don't see the much. Their jobs are very demanding. My oldest brother John, is kind of like the stand in parent while their gone. He looks out for all of us and still manages to keep up with his farm work and school. This was his last year in the Reapings. I also have an older sister who is almost always ill but is also very smart and kind, her name's Emma, and then lastly I have a little sister. Her name's May and she's nine. She's very playful and kind. She's loves adventures." I smile a little. Thinking about May always makes me feel better.

"So," Caesar continues. "Do you miss anything from back home?"

"Well, I miss all the animals and of course my family. I miss waking up early and going to the farm too. I actually really loved farm work. It was just really fun for me. And I also miss playing with May and talking with Emily."

Caesar nodded, this time a little sad. "Alright. Now we only have time for one more question, so we'll make it a good one, alright?" He winked and Lydie smiled and nodded.

"What's something you'd like to say to your friends and family back home? How about your fellow tributes?"

Lydie smiled at the camera this time and said, "Mom, Dad, if you're listening I love you very much and I wish I could've seen you one more time before I left. Whatever happens, know that I always loved you and I was always happy with the life you gave me. You couldn't have been better parents. To my sisters and brother, don't be sad or upset. I'm coming back home, nothing could stop me from seeing you all again. Absolutely nothing. I can't wait until I come back home and get to hear your voices again." Lydie smiled the most loving, warm smile she could and blew a kiss to the camera. "And to my fellow tributes, I'm apologizing in advance. I have nothing more to say to you because I know that nothing I can say will ever make you forgive me for taking you from your family and friends. I just hope you know that I'm not taking joy in having to hurt any of you. I'm really not."

Lydie looked gravely at the camera. She really didn't want to hurt anyone. But she was going to get back to her family. She had no doubt about that.

The rest of the interview passed by in a blur. Caesar shook her hand, she smiled and waved, and then it was done. It was over. Finished. Lydie grinned on her way back to her room. It might just have been the best interview she had ever had.

[SinInChaos]

Damion Winters



Who needs a friend
when you've got a hatchet?

I already miss the overall's I'd wear at the slaughterhouse, but now I wish they were back already compared to this stiff suit. The stylist wanted me to look all nice a proper for the interview. Not some country bumpkin. No one from the capitol wants to see a farm boy making his way toward Flickerman. And do I disagree? Not really. I feel as though they would rather see some savage who could rip the throat out of his victim. But instead I need to be this upstanding citizen. Someone who can wear a smile while looking as, I'm not sure; they call it classy. But moving in this damn suit is a hassle since it feels so confining. And every moment I have to wait for my name in the interview is just another moment that I wish I could rip the whole thing off. Instead I'll be someone that I'm not. The handsome, groomed boy from ten who cared for the animals back at home. Yes, cared for the for the animals. How beastly of a being must I have been to care for such moronic things.

"Now then, Damion Winters from District Ten!" Flickerman's voice booms through the room.

Ends upon ends of people wait across from the other end of the stage. They interest me only a little, for potential sponsors wait out there with gracious gifts. Who wouldn't want a gift from such a generous being. But I never expected this many people, wanting to hear what I have to say to them. All their excited faces. The joy I would have if they were pitted against each other like we were. Me, able to watch safely. Still have my sister to keep me company. How we would laugh when the tributes would die. And I know she would laugh with me because she would be just like me. Wouldn't she? Not caring about the lives that are thrown away for the sheer amount of entertainment gained. They're blood is always worth it.

I stop near Flickerman, giving a dignified bow before holding out my hand. He takes my hand, and I notice his grip is hardly optimal for a man of his stature. Why do the people of the capitol have to be such weaklings compared to me? To bad they hold the power.

"My my, folks, this one has a grip!"

I release his hand and give my apologies, as it is quite rude of me to expose my strength at the current moment. I should save that for the arena. Then we're both to our seats, listening to the roar of the crowd before they die down and finally let us speak amongst each other. The crowd definitely seemed to love the entrance, something suggested by the stylists, and it is making me quite the crowd pleaser. Or maybe the previous tributes have just put on a similar performance and were getting them riled up. Now I just need to keep playing it up. Keep the crowd in my favor.

“Now, then, Damion, I have to know: what's impressed you so far about the capitol?”

How weak you all are? No, that's a normal response for me. They don't want to hear how bitter I am toward them for taking my sister, do they? I have to mellow it down, sound normal compared to the Damion that I've built. The only thing I can think of now floods from my mouth. “I really enjoy the hospitality. Everyone is so friendly here, homely. Definitely makes me cozy.” Such a backwoods answer, but the audience seems to be eating it up. Gluttons for words if I did say so myself. Instead I'm this image of what they want me to be, and I'm okay with that. It's what I've been trying to achieve all of my life, isn't it? Become the little, bloodthirsty hound that breaks through the crowd. But I'm not that right now. What the hell am I?

Flickerman raises his hand to quiet the storm. “Well that's good to hear! At least we can show some respect for the tributes, am I right!”

I hear the roar again. Why do they enjoy that, being the better end of the spectrum not only in cruelness but in hospitality. Tension builds in my muscles. I'm confused as to what I've really been doing this entire time. Remie, was this really the people that you had met when you came to the capitol? No, they're more vicious than they're leading on. I have to trust in my ambitions now more than ever to please these fools. I have to believe that what they want is an all out slaughter-fest.

Flickerman quiets them again and begins with another question. “Well Damion, we'd really like to know with that score of yours: how did you feel about the eight?”

A decent score from a district that was of the lower area's. Normally it is the people of the higher up districts getting the better scores, but instead I earned the score of someone from a middle district. I am happy for it. But remember the stylists. Sound not like Damion, but as the stage Damion. “An eight is a pretty decent score, and I'm glad to at least have that number. I was worried that the game-makers had thought I was dull.” Being someone else. Why is it so easy? I can't tell who I am anymore. Has the veil, the need to hide who I really am, something that cannot be avoided? Something I'm not. Something I am.

There seems to be some applause in the crowd, not quite as much as before. I don't care though. My mind is scratching at itself, begging me to free the thoughts that are hiding in it. I want to talk about killing everyone on the field. Be happy that there is no one who can handle the pain and misery like myself. But this, this new found guilt that is building up within me. This is guilt, right? This heavier than gravity feeling.

“Not bad if I do say so myself,” Flickerman chuckles. How easily I hide my pain for them not to realize the agony in my mind. “Well then Damion, we really want to know, is there anyone you're looking for, if you get back home?”

The if is something that is bothering me now. If? No, I will make it back. You're a fool for thinking I won't. But I smile at the audience, the most charming smile I can make. You have to rope them in if you want to seem convincing, right? Everyone loves a face that they can trust. Everyone loves a word that is spoken, right?

“I have a friend back at home. He was going to show me something out in the district before I had to leave. Other than that, I'm guaranteed that more people will notice me.” You hear that? If I make it back I have a friend to look forward to, and potentially more. Nothing really to look forward to. A waste of effort. The turmoil builds again and the fire is almost unquenchable.

Luckily, Flickerman tells me that the interview is over and I am sent off-stage. I'm alone for the moment, shaking in anger and confusion.

“Who am I? Who am I?”

[Python]

-----------------------

A coin has two sides. A moon has two faces. Above the horizon bathed in sapphire, there was always a sunrise and a sunset, and within Demeter Merwin-Glory, there were two people. There was Demeter Merwin, a broken child. Battered, crushed, chewed and spat into the dirt, unable to pick up the pieces of the shell left behind.

Weak. But it was from these scattered pieces of her banished soul (did you ever have one?) that fragments were collected and sewn together by poisonous stitches - stitches whose venom surged through her veins, into her heart, into her mind and the glass shards of her soul that remained until her heart was blackened and her mind spoiled and her soul destroyed. Demeter was reborn into Demeter Glory - a cursed surname destined to beckon her down one of two paths; the winding path to golden glory, or the withered path to failure. Adorned in a pearly white to accentuate her complexion and matching heels to accentuate her intimidating height, Demeter Glory hoped to find her way down the winding path by the end of this interview. Presentation is everything. It was time to do what she did best: pretend that she was a golden spirit, not a heartless witch. Just one façade after the other until one day, she would eventually lose herself.

”Demeter Merwin-Glory!” Glory, just Glory. Merwin faded to dust long ago. The roar of a colorful crowd screeched against her bones, prompting an unpleasant, tingling sensation to emerge along with the racing pulse and euphoria that fueled her system. She strutted across the stage with a fabricated smile gracing her elegantly-dolled up features, her jades shining beneath the stage lights as she greeted Caesar with flashing white teeth. “Wow!” cried the famous or infamous depending on one’s perspective interviewer, scanning her up in town in shock obviously derived from the sight of how tall she was. “You’re a tall young lady, aren’t you? How tall exactly?” So eager for information, as always. Personal or not, she would be judged and analyzed by every pair of eyes watching from the crowd and behind televisions screens. This moment was most crucial of all - even more so than her private training session with the Gamemakers. She simply could not choose this moment to screw up. Pretend he is just another client. A client, yes. A client dressed so vibrantly it ached to stare directly at his atrocious outfit. ”6’1”

”That is quite an advantage you have there! And speaking of advantages, how confident do you feel about the games now that you‘ve received a training score of six?” His words earned a chuckle from the seemingly-cheerful tribute. She should’ve expected him to open with such a simple inquiry. ”As confident as I felt when I first walked into the Training Center,” she admitted with a gentle shrug, shifting into a comfortable position in her chair with one long leg crossed over the other. ”Truthfully, the training scores only matter because they earn us sponsors. We won’t know where the real talent lies until we enter the arena.” Caesar nodded approvingly. “Well said, Demeter. Well said.” Echoing claps shattered her hopes for background silence. Obnoxious or not, it was reassuring to know that they were still listening. “So, you said you’ve been confident since you first arrived at the Training Center, but how do you feel about The Capitol itself? What has impressed you the most since you’ve been here?”

A smile traced its way delicately across her glossed lips. She had committed this question to memory; it was mentioned every single year to almost every tribute, especially those of career and lower districts, and her response was already lingering in the shadows of her mind. ”The people,” said the liar, her untrustworthy words seeping past her lips like droplets of invisible poison. It was not the people that fascinated her - they disgusted her, quite frankly - but the technology. Technological advances was a dull topic to discuss, however. The brainless Capitolites didn’t want to hear about that; they wanted to hear about themselves. ”The people here are so different. They are all kind, enthusiastic, and talkative. Easy to communicate with. That doesn’t happen back in district two.” There was truth in portions of her statements. The Capitolites were indeed bubbly and cheerful and treated her like royalty, especially her stylists, but that didn’t quite make them easy to communicate with. She could only bear standing in their presence for so long before their sugary attitudes sickened her to the stomach. Too much sweet, and not enough of a mixture with the other flavors. It wasn’t proper. It was abnormal. “Well, we’re certainly flattered to hear that, aren’t we?” he said with a laugh to the audience, who responded with cheers upon cheers of joy. Perfect - this interview was progressing rather well.

“So you like us here in The Capitol, but is there a special someone for you back home?”

Demeter struggled to stifle an insolent cackle. A special someone? You aren’t capable of love, foolish girl. As if anybody deserved her attention, her affection. Her anything. Prostitution was her occupation and forte, and quite frankly, she had grown tired of sharing beds with the scum of district two, let alone breathing the same air as them. ”Sorry to disappoint, but there is nobody in district two for me. No, there was nobody ever. Ever, ever, ever. Who would love you? “Aw, come on. A beautiful girl like you? There must be someone,” he pressed further, scratching himself deeper into her personal lifestyle. She was suddenly thankful for a lifetime of experience in acting, because without it her bitter and icy attitude would’ve returned with rather unpleasant effects. ”I’m being perfectly honest when I say I don’t have a special someone. I guess I’m just not ready to settle down with anyone.” Her first entirely true statement. And she thought she would have to lie, lie, lie to capture the audience’s attention. ”Maybe one day, though. After I win.” she suddenly added, ensuring the audience of her confidence and a false wish to one day satisfy their need for a love story.

“That’s the spirit!” exclaimed Caesar, flashing his perfect white smile at her - a smile that nearly blinded her beneath the stage lights. Naturally, she smiled back, giving the impression that she was as overjoyed about this experience as he was, not that she truly cared about The Capitolites for any reason other than their money. “Well, since you don’t have a boyfriend, how about you tell us a little bit about your family?” She knew it was coming. Like a blow to the stomach, it caught her slightly off-guard, and she was far too hasty with her response. ”I have no family.” Murmurs broke out among audience members, and the cheerful smile no longer stretched Caesar’s most-likely-surgically-altered features. ”I mean, I live with my grandparents, but they’re my only family left. My parents sort of…vanished.” Abandoned her, she wanted to say. Not that she missed either of them. I never knew you, mother, but I knew him. Why did you leave me with him? She despised both of them. Silently, she hoped for their deaths, and if they still managed to survive, she prayed they would see her on television. Look what you’ve created.

”I’m sorry to hear that,” he said, though she felt as if his sympathy was as plastic as he was. Quite similar to how she pretend to care, so she took it to no offense. “What do you do during your free time back in district two? Do you do anything interesting with your grandparents?” Finally, another simple question she could breeze her way though, this time with the truth. Well, not the entire truth. ”Not with my grandparents. They’re very weak, and too ill to work. I take care of them, actually, and help them pay their bills. Mainly my grandmother likes to knit, and I picked up on the skill from watching her a bit.” She no longer knitted anything. Her grandmother was just too brittle, slowly fading away until she and her husband would eventually perish in their beds, perhaps while she was in the arena. ”During my free time I usually just exercise. It helps me keep my mind off of the stress.”

Caesar nodded, muttering something along the lines of “I see, I see” and “Good”, but the constant buzz of the crowd left his quieter words inaudible. By the expression that flickered across his face, she guessed it was about time to wrap up the interview. “Now, before we end this interview, is there anything you’d like to say to your friends back in district two?” Friends. Demeter didn’t have time for friends. ”Yes, I do.”

She stared into the crowd and into the cameras, her smile fading into a pursed, straight line. ”I hope you enjoy the show, everyone.” The once gentle tone became harsh and thickened by frost. The façade was gone; one final show before the games. ”Try not to miss me too much, because I won‘t miss a single one of you.”

A silent pause.

“Demeter Merwin-Glory, distirct two, everyone!”

Let the Games begin.

[/color][/justify][/blockquote]

[chelsey]

You never get to choose.
You live on what they sent you.
And you know they're gonna use
the things you love against you.

The flood of lights drench down upon me when I make my first step onstage, every thud of my heart against constricted rib bones a drum beat as the frantic buzz of applause drones to a low hum in my ears. The world around me shatters to the violent palpitates of my body and the deafening roar of an oblivious audience, my balance teeter tottering over every height and edge of my terrors. A hand extends out to me (a life jacket thrown off board and into the abyss of camera flashes and red recording bulbs) and I reach out and grasp for it - holding onto my transient refuge in hopes of stilting elevation - right as an echo of the words, “Ladies and gentleman, Heather Elliot of District Eleven!”

[/I][/color] reach my ears. I bury the incessant trembling of my hands in the folds of my dress, the nails clawing through the silky fabric and biting into the skin of my thigh as I take a seat. The smile on my face is atomic and fraudulent when the next wave of words wash over me.

“Tell me, Heather, how old are you exactly? Sixteen isn’t it?” Interviews are formulaic, systematic, always an equation that only requires a few simple answers - “How old are you, Heather?” “What do you like to do, Heather?” “Do you miss your family, Heather?” “How much longer do you think you’ll live, Heather?” “Have you accepted your death yet, Heather?” Simple, simple, simple - [/I]

“Yes, sixteen,”[/color] I reply, my muscles mechanically twitching upwards after each syllable (smiling for the crowd, smiling for the people eagerly anticipating my slaughter, smiling for the audience gambling on my life). [/I]

“You’re a beautiful girl for a child so young, aren’t you?”[/color] He says, averting his face slightly to face the audience and admonish their own cheers and applauds. He plasters a grotesque smile on his lips as I breathe out an uneasy laugh, because he said it, he knows, he acknowledged the fact that we are all still children. ( “Oh, grow up, Heather,” Tasmain jabbed at me one night after dinner, where the gravity of my surroundings finally settled around me and dragged down a flood of tears. “You’re sixteen years old, stop being such a goddamn kid.” After that, the only time I allowed myself to cry was away from my escort’s prying and burning eyes.)[/I] [/color]

“My aunt used to tell me I have an old soul,” I murmur quietly, my voice an unsteady wave in itself as I watch Caesar absorb my words. (Are Aunt Meryl and Uncle Dorian and Ava and Atimia watching now? Do they miss me? Do they know I miss them?)[/i]

“Well, that would explain it, wouldn’t it?”[/color] He says lightly, a friendly chuckle stemming through his voice. “You are timelessly beautiful.”

An intractable blush softly spreads under the pale of my cheeks as a, “Thank you,” passes my lips. I feel Tasmain leering somewhere behind stage, urging me to say more, to charm the crowd, to satisfy the viewers, to please the sponsors, to do something, goddammnit. Instead, I silently watch Caesar as he fills in the gaping pause I left open.

“You mentioned your aunt earlier, tell me about your family.” The words have an air of genuine curiosity, as if Caesar and I are old friends and not surrounded by thousands of strangers and blinking camera lenses.

“I was raised -” through futile dreams and aimless hopes, my existence spurred off the optimism of a gullible fool’s world “- by my aunt and uncle. They’re practically my parents, they never treated me any different from Ava or Atimia. I -” am that gullible fool, who fantasized of wings and bursting through the crust of ethereal atmospheres, all the while not realizing that the fluttering hum of the wind was a mask over the drumming ticks of the clock (tick, tock, tick, tock - “Heather Elliot, your time is up,”) and it took me eternities to realize that my wings were merely the buds of a falling conscience, and no one can fly. No one can fly, and no one can dream, and no one can hope, and (above all) no one can [/I] “- love them very much. I’m lucky to have had them.” To have had.

Time spirals backwards, suddenly, and the soft thudding of footsteps against yellow grass floats in my wake and fills my ears with the laughter of autumn evenings, and the waft of freshly baked bread that we never get to eat fills my nostrils with the nostalgia of home. Ava and Atimia stare up at me from my perch on a tree, hands on their hips, as they both sing out, “Heather Elliot, you are a girl, and girls can’t fly!” “But, I’m no girl; I’m a bird, and birds do fly.” [/i]And fly I do, past the precipices of forgotten memories and over the wistful thistles of an abandoned home. Singing in my school’s talent show [/color](those bright lights differed much differently from the ones I’m faced with now), baking bread with Uncle Dorian in the old kitchen of the bakery, watching birds outside the window of my history class, giggling with the other girls in the schoolyard, turning the yellow pages of a book by the crackling heat of a fireplace, having my first kiss with Henri Kellings on the rooftop of his house, running in between the wide rows of cornfields, playing dress up with little Ava and Atimia, climbing up the old branches of an ancient and weathered tree, listening to the booming of a thunderstorm as the cracks of lightning cut a gray sky in half, sighing in relief year after year when another girl steps up to her inevitable death -

“And you miss them?”

I smile a small and sad smile. “I miss home.”[/I]

The hushes of the crowd is audible to my ears, and I think somewhere backstage Tasmain is ripping his hair apart. (“Goddammnit, Heather!” He’ll hiss at me later tonight. “It was a yes or no question!”) [/i]Caesar mirrors my smile with a pair of his own synthetic lips as he responds, [/color]“And I’m sure they miss you, too.”

Do you want to bet?

The atmosphere has grown muggy and sullen, so, instead, Caesar extends his lips a little wider and veers this interview in a different path. “You seem like a girl with good sense, though, isn’t that right? How do you feel about that four the Gamemakers gave you?”

(“If he asks you, which I know he will, play it down. Pretend you have something dangerous up your sleeve.” “But, Tasmain, I don’t -” “Yeah, yeah, I know, you don’t have anything to hide. But that’s why we call it pretend.”)[/I]

“Would you trust me if I told you, Caesar, that I am capable of so much more than what anyone else thinks I am?” [/color]

He looks at me ingenuously, an augury of imminent mourning clouding his features. The smile on my lips fades as his words soak in the air between us.

"With a soul as old as yours, I wouldn't doubt it." [/blockquote][/blockquote][/justify][/color]

One foot in the grave.
One foot in the shower.
There's never time to save.
You're paying by the hour.

[/color]

[/size]

[✨ zozo.]

I know all the lines to say
The part I'm expected to play
But in the reflection, I am worlds away
And everyone's waiting
But it's getting harder to hear

[/i][/center]

"Ladies and Gentlemen, put your hands together for District Eight's Aria Wolfe!"

Prethim had talked us through this time and time again. You go up, you smile, you answer questions. You get them to laugh, to beam, to give up their money for your survival. You make them like you. But I'm useless at getting on with others. I'm infamous for my enemies, who outweigh my friends back home - yet as I think more and more about home, in contrast to the gleaming, wondrous Capitol, home seems like a place that ceased to exist. Cheers, claps, whoops and murmurs dance around the extensive, seemingly endless room of people, creating a patchwork of sound that covered the stage.

"Go on" someone calls behind me, a hand nudging my posture foreward - and all of a sudden, I am encompassed by the crowd's excitement, a colourful array of applause roaring for me. For me. Perhaps getting them to like we wouldn't be so bad after all. Caesar stands, microphone in one hand, the other outstretched towards my shuffling figure. Loribelle tried her hardest to force me into high heels, but after strenious amounts of time wasted with falling over and various bumps and bruises, she gave up and slipped on a pair of dainty little flats instead. Heaved into a dress that made me wish I had my reaping outfit on instead, face plastered with makeup and hair cscooped back by a thousand different clips, I somehow manage to reach the couch without making a total fool of myself. Waving to a few members of the crowd as I perch on the soft fabric (make them love you, Aria), I return Caesar's warm smile.

"Welcome, Aria, welcome - wonderful to have you here" he greets, nodding a thank you, refusing to remove the forced curve between the corners of my mouth. "Now, tell us - how confident do you feel about the games now that you've seen your training score? A 9 for someone as young as yourself is quite impressive, if I must say." A laugh so phony the taste feels sour in my mouth appears, shrugging slightly. "Well, I've seen tributes younger than 15 get higher scores in previous years, Caeser - but I think the rest of this year's tribs better watch out!"

I feel so phony, so fake. Surely my family back home can see this (if they even bother to watch my final days span out on the television screen) - yet I pray that no-one else can see through the crafted Capitol make-up and Sarita-like smirk. A 9 meant sponsors - but a 9 also meant the hungry snarls of Careers chasing me through forest, snow, rubble and sand. I've seen them, eyeing the good ones. Eyeing the ones who outshon them. Eyeing me, right now, on this stage, planning the ways they'll slowly but surely drain me dry. Desperate to get rid of me, the threat.

The threat. I'm the threat. And the moment the thought lightly grazes my mind, like a kiss to my forehead as I drift off to sleep, a beam - a genuine, delighted beam - blossoms on my face. They're scared. They're scared of the threat. Of me, the threat. They're the kids who I chased down, who cowered as I rose a wooden branch over their figures, the kids who yelled at me to get off them in playfights, who's faces I shoved in mud and grass and who-knows what else. I'm in control, at the height of my game.

Caeser calms the crowd's over-excited applause that reminds me faintly of Sarita's giggles over boys at school. Another pang of homesickness rocks my body, but again, I shove it away, unnoticed, in the bottom of my mind. "So, you've been here for a week, surely it's a big jump from District Eight, am I right?" he asks me, and I raise my eyebrows in agreement. "Absolutely!" I agree with a bob of my head, casting my glace out to the audience again. Thank you, Sarita, for your silent lessons of flattery you never even knew you were teaching. Turning my concentration back to Caesar, I ready myself for the next batch of questions - voice calm and clear. "What's impressed you the most so far?"

Oh, how the list could go on. The food. The clothes. The training centre, with it's masses of things to climb and roll about in and on. The endless rows of doors with locks to unhinge, handles to open, windows to sneak gaze out of. How much more real everything here seemed to be, now I was plucked from my reality and thrown into the one I spent hours and hours staring at on a screen. "Your hair" I respond - quite truthfully, in fact, as everyone in this room has such wild, bold hair - and the crowd, along with Caesar, erupt into laughter. I blink, and laugh along with the room. Sell it. Sell your survival. "My hair?" Caesar barks, and although his lips have sobred from laughing, the remains still glint in his eyes. I nod excitedly, feeling my hair bounce along to the movement. "Yes" I reply, all of a sudden feeling as giddy as the audience members. It was probably the lights in my eyes.

"Well, for a pretty girl like you, who doesn't have bad hair herself - now, haven't District Eight's stylists done such a wonderful job?" The Master of Cermonies takes a moment to pause in our conversation and let the Capitol erupt into a chorused "Yes!" of approved applause, yet I only smile bashfully, nodding, pretending I agree. I hate my hair. I hate my dress. I hate the whole damned outfit. "Surely you've got some young chap at home waiting eagerly for your return?"

And the whole room slows down again. I am myself for a moment, wanting to rip off my glitzy, glamorous outfit and run off of the stage, through the camera lense, and back home again. Home. Home is where the cold waits for me. Home is where Jon sits, if he's even allowed into the house anymore now I'm not there to protect him, gazing at the television screen, to a transformed girl he once cared for. It's not me, Jon, I want to scream. It's not me. I'm just trying to come home, Jon. Please, Jon. Believe me. And I blink - and here I am, back in reality. Still perched on the couch, words collecting themselves on the tip of my tongue and barking a short laugh. Lie to protect him. Lie to protect yourself.

Shaking my head, my lips part. "No, I'll be honest - not at all, Caesar" I shrug, laughing again as the crowd murmurs, as if to say they can't believe it. Well don't, I think angrily, little hands tightening in my lap. I'm sorry Jon. I'm sorry. Caesar remarks, something about that being too bad, that it simply can't be true - but on this stage I am anything but the truth. I am transformed.

"Well, in that case - what do you like to do with all your seemingly spare time back home? Anything you miss" another set of questions ask. A mischievious smile tries itself on my expressions, seeming to like what it sees. "Well, I like to sneak out of my house when no-one is watching. That's always fun." Again, more laughter - more chances for money to come my way. "Do your family not notice?" the interviewer asks, and I shake my head. "No, not usually. I'm just too quick to catch." Another sly smile at the cameras - not towards my family, but for the Capitolites with hands hovering over wallets or telephones. I'm your best bet, I tell them. I'll get you your money's worth.

The next question hits home, to say the least. "Now, I'm sure that this year's reaping shocked quite a few people, am I right?" Murmured agreement dispurses from the crowd. Bran. They're talking about Bran. "It sure did" I sigh quietly, ever-tortured by my brother's presence here with me in the Capitol. "But I promised a lot of people that I'd look after him as best I could." Careful, I think to myself. "I'm sure you will, Aria" Caesar replies solemnly, stretching the drama through the audience. For a brainwashed Capitolite, he sure as hell knows what he's doing.

"Now, before we leave, anything you'd like to say to your family before you leave? Your fellow tributes?"

Oh yes, Caesar, there certainly is.

This stare, into the plastic, reflective lens - is for everyone. My friends, my family, but most importantly: my fellow tributes.

"Winter is coming." [/i]

And with that, my buzzer sounds, I give one last wave, and I saunter off of the stage, one step closer to death's doors.

[/color]Not today. Not today. Not today.

Just swallow and breathe, she says
Remember this ain't for you, it's for them
And all of those painful lessons you've had to learn
You gotta use them now or never
Cos everyone's waiting

[/i]

{ooc: idek don't ask}
[/center]

[/justify][/blockquote][/size][/blockquote]

[arx!!]

۵ ۵ ۵ ۵ ۵

When she was just a girl
She expected the world
But it flew away from her reach
And the bullets catch in her teeth

What does a girl do when she is placed in front of a group of strange people and asked to show off her skills? Oh yeah, she throws knives at their heads and draws a blade down her tongue until the blood drips to the floor. Sadly, I'm not sure that throwing knives at potential sponsors and making myself bleed to death on stage is going to help me in this situation. But I don't know what to do, there is no way I can fix this. I am going to faint on stage and the people here are going to have to carry me off and past all of the other tributes an they are going to know about me and read me like a book and I really can't let them. So I guess fainting isn't an option. I hear familiar sound of applause and start to panic. I can't remember my lines ... I'm letting everyone down by not memorizing my lines. I dig through my mind, trying to remember something - anything - but it's useless. I can't even remember the name of the show we are putting on. Someone walks off stage right past me but I don't know who it is. Not Cod or Keag or Theo. Did someone new join Tempus? How come I wasn't there to watch auditions? I look around, trying to find hints for who exactly I am supposed to be playing - but I'm not even at Tempus. Where am I?

Ladies and gentlemen let's all give a warm welcome to the District 6 female - Miss Naveen Casovnik!" That's my name. No, no, no, I'm not ready ... I can't remember my lines my character - ugh, my tongue really fucking hurts right now. Do these people ever get enough? I must've put on a billion shows for them already. Are they really so greedy that they have asked for yet another one?! Those crazy ass people don't need anything, not from me. Maybe they need to be taught some manners. And how to dress properly. They all look so ridiculous with there hair and lips ans skin. Like very ugly mini-rainbows. Maybe they are actually a rainbows shit. Do rainbows even take shits? Maybe I should throw knives at these people ...

Come now, Naveen. That's right, let me help you. You know I can. Did you see that 6 for a training score?

Whoa. Did I really just think those things? No way. There is no way I am ever becoming that character ever again ... And suddenly I am being pushed on stage. The lights are brighter than I remember. The stage is harder than I remember. And there are so many more people than there ever is at Tempus. I have stopped breathing. I am going to die out here. These people are going to kill me with their eyes. They are all looking at me right now as I stand rigidly at the edge of the stage staring back at them. The stage shifts below me and my head aches as everyone in the crowd blurs into one giant, colorful blob. I hear the boom of a microphone but the voice doesn't say anything. I hear the crowd shriek but I think it is with laughter. I rub my forehead, trying to grasp onto reality. And then I'm sitting in the chair. Plush and comfortable. And it feels so amazing to sit down. And all I can do is watch my hand stroke the fluffiness of the chair. My nail polish is the prettiest color. My hands are smoother than silk or butter or whatever else people say is smooth. My little bracelets are so sparkly that it looks like my stylist must've plucked stars straight from the sky and clipped them right on the bracelet. I feel myself calming down, but I know I will have to look up at the crowd sometime. Eventually I will have to listen to the words the microphone is booming around the room. And that's when I will faint.

Or I could just use that character for a little bit ... What could it hurt? That girl helped me before didn't she? Yes. The girl who cut her tongue and threw knives at a Gamemaker is the character I'm supposed to be playing. These people want a show, she is the only one that can give it to them. Character: her. Lines: completely memorized. Play: The 62nd Hunger Games. And I try to push away the memory of the pain that it caused me the last time I used this character ...

I turn my head to the crowd and let a smile grow across my face. This is going to be so easy ... "Hello Mr. Flickerman." I smile at him, trying to keep the smirk off of my lips. This guy really does look ridiculous. "Decided to talk to me now, have you, Naveen?" He looks to the crowd and laughs along with them. I make sure to chuckle a little. "So, sixteen, correct?" I nod in response. "And you are from District Six and got six for a training score. I'd say that could be lucky, wouldn't you?" "Oh I certainly would Mr. Flickerman. Six letters in my name, I'm from District 6, and I got a six for a training score. Six, six, six. How fitting for me." I'm debating if any of these people even know what that means. Nah, I don't care. I think they can learn.

"Mr. Flickerman, I would like to tell the audience a story." He smiles and turns to the audience with a questioning look on his face. "Would anyone like to hear a story from the lovely girl?" Applause and cheering commence after his words and he nods at me. "I'd say the audience would love to hear a story." I smile at him and get to me feet, kicking out of my heels because I can't believe I even let my stylist put them no me in the first place.

"Once upon a time, there was a girl. She was irresistible. The most beautiful girl anyone had ever seen. All the boys wanted to be around her, all the girls wanted to be her friend. She was the definition of perfect and brilliance. And she boasted that everyone could be just like her - have the beauty, the glory, the fame that she had. You just had to follow her. You just had to wear her mark on your hand. Not only was she irresistible, her mark was as well. Once you had the mark, you were part of her forever and ever and ever until the end of time. And anyone who looked upon the mark would be unable to resist this mark and join her as well. No one could resist this beauty. And who would? She was the best."

"Isn't that girl you?" Someone in the front row of the crowd shouts at me. I walk over to him and get on my hands and knees so I can get nearer to him. "Of course I am. Thank you for noticing." I smile at him and stand once more, listening to the cheering and applause in the coming from the crowd. "I come to you in the form of a goddess. Something no one can resist. Right? So who is joining me?" More applause, more cheering, some raised hands. I kiss the back of my right hand, leaving a red lipstick mark on the back and raise it to the crowd. "The mark of Naveen Casovnik !" Many people have kissed their own hand now and raised it to me, cheering and screaming my name. I smile at the crowd, trying to hold in the sadistic ideas that keep trying to reach out to me. "is really the devil in disguise. I grin from ear to ear. "I am ready to kill, to hunt, to take over. I am the victor of the 62nd Hunger Games. I am The Beast."

The crowd is going nuts as the buzzer sounds behind me. I turn, bending to pick up my heels and - exiting the stage with my heels flung over my shoulder.

"Ladies and gentlemen, Naveen Casovnik! The Beast from District 6!"

And when I am finally off-stage, I frantically try to rub away the lipstick mark on my hand, before my hand starts to blur as my eyes fill with tears just as they did the last time.

"Screw this place." I whimper as I sink into the corner and cry just as I hear Theseus' name boom into the crowd.

Life goes on, it gets so heavy
The wheel breaks the butterfly
Every tear a waterfall
In the night the stormy night she'll close her eyes
In the night the stormy night away she'd fly
And dreams of paradise

۵ ۵ ۵ ۵ ۵

[Rosetta]

~Bran Wolfe

"Bran Wolfe!"

It was always his name. Never before had his name caused such deep creases in his forehead. Bran Wolfe had fallen from the Justice Building. Bran Wolfe had been Reaped. Bran Wolfe got a three on his private training session.

Bran Wolfe was crippled.

"Bran Wolfe! What a name. Matches Aria's!" Caesar winked and Bran smiled weakly. The fact that he had an interview had completely slipped his mind until the morning of when his prep team woke him up in the early hours of the morning, grinning down at him quite frightfully.

"Careful of his legs," they chided each other, as if fearing the slightest touch might send him into unimaginable agony or worse, infect them with the same ailment.

"I'm fine," he said over and over as they shaved the non-existent hair on his face and mused his hair. "I'm fine. Really."

"Of course you are, sweetheart," one grinned, revealing moss green teeth as she plucked at his eyebrows.

"So, Bran," Caesar smiled genuinely and Bran found it hard to dislike him. Usually the smiles he got were cruel and twisted or of pity. This was a real smile. "I'm sure all of us here are wondering about the same thing." The Capitol crowd muttered out in reply, but quickly fell into a hushed silence. Bran knew what was coming and he swallowed hard.

"You're crippled..." the teacher faltered, chewing on her lower lip. She stepped slightly away from him. "From the waist down?"

"From the waist down," Bran agreed and Caesar's smile didn't fall from his face.

"Bran," his teacher's hand clung to the edge of her desk, but now, she gave it a final squeeze and moved towards him. Kneeling down, she became eye level with him, but still her eyes could not meet his. "It must take a lot to return to school, but, dear," she frowned and patted his hand awkwardly, "just warning you, kids may not take very kindly to your...your....disability." Her hand squeezed his. Bran nodded, taking a deep breath and she forced a small smile of pity before standing and turning from him. "But, Bran," she began, walking back to her desk to cling to it for dear life, "I must asked you-"

"How did it happen?" Caesar spoke entirely without shame and Bran felt his heart drop into his stomach. Though he had anticipated this question, he'd never quite come up with a suitable response. Did he dare utter the story that haunted him so? Clung over him like death? "He saw."[/i] There was a reason he fell and that reason was so that he could never ever dare to relay what he'd seen to other people.

Did that still apply to dead boys?

"I..I..." Bran looked away from Caesar and stared hard at his lifeless legs, narrowing his eyes, "I fell..."

"You fell?" Caesar repeated and Bran shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

"Yes," he went on, "I like to climb-I mean," his chest seized up, "I liked to climb..."

Caesar leaned forward and patted his arm sympathetically, but Bran pulled away, his forehead creased with lost chances to tell the truth.

"That must've been very hard for you," Caesar went on and Bran could only manage a nod. "I gather you had a lot of support at home?"

Rajas.

"This is heavy,” Bran muttered as his stylist helped him into the night's outfit.

"Bran," he was told, "it's all for the effect. You may be crippled, but you're not weak. You're a soldier. You're strong."

"No, Rajas is strong," he replied stubbornly, but allowed himself to be dressed.

The little soldier fingered the breastplate he'd been slid into. Armor. His entire outfit was a suit of armor. Even his legs were clad in iron.

"Yeah, my mom...and my sisters like Aria and my brothers...especially Rajas. My older brother," and Bran wrapped his arms around himself, metal clanging on metal, trying to mimic his brother’s strength, but feeling tiny, like one of Ricky’s toy soldiers. Caesar grinned at him.

“I’m sure he’s excellent,” he agreed, “and we already love your sister, don’t we folks?” The crowd cheered and Bran smiled weakly, his stomach filled with a stabbing pain because that was the sister they were planning on murdering in cold blood. “Now, Bran, I have just one more question for you.” Caesar’s grin had completely slipped from his face now and he leaned forward, a more urgency in his tone when he said, “Do you have anything you’d like to say about your disability? Anything you’d like to tell your fellow tributes?”

On the day Bran was Reaped, he sat by the window of the speeding train and watched his whole life blur. His heart was thumping wildly, tick tock, a ticking clock it was. Ticking away all the remaining life he had left. He wanted to get up and walk away from it all, but he couldn’t. He was stuck. He recalled grazing Death’s cold fingers, but pulling back from him and pushing upward out of the dark ground, finally resurfacing in his bed, sheer determination having been his driving force, but this time, Bran knew he wouldn’t be able to dig himself back up. This was it and again, those fingers closed chillingly around his arms and Bran could only sit there, a thumping rhythm in his ears, listening to himself die.

Ka-thump, ka-thump, and Bran stared at this man in the eyes, this genuinely smiling man who would love to see him die and Bran shook his head and his hands tensed on the wheels of his wheelchair, preparing to wheel himself away. He spoke with a certainty, such a kind that was strong and unwavering in the air, almost suggesting that he didn’t fear what was to come, that he’d accepted it--

“No, I don’t have anything to say—“

When in truth, he just felt it beating inside of him, the truth, rattling his bones. He just couldn’t walk away from it. [/blockquote][/color][/size]

[rook]

good morning, today is WEDNESDAE and the weather looks bright with a slight chance of obsessive murder

i'm torn in opposite directions
the plot sucks
but these killings are gorgeous
god damn, these killings are gorgeous

[/i][/right]

“We’ll go for a chiseled look, like you’re made of marble…” My stylist suggests. Her name is Lepitera, and she’s one of the few Capitol women I’ve met who actually has natural beauty. She hasn’t had much work done to her face, it’s so perfectly attractive that she brings a smile to my face. Her hair is a shocking pink that looks like some of that weird stuff I ate in our quarters. I don’t remember the name of it, but it was just as pink and frizzy as her hurricane of hair. Her accent is warm, unlike the sharp barks that I’ve heard from my escort Tanisha, who’s hair looks like roots spawning from her skull. I’m a lot more comfortable around Lepitera, and so I find it easier to relax and pick a style that suits me.

I’m not too worried about the interview, I’ve always been a cocky sort of guy, so if I just play myself then I’m sure to win over the easy Capitol crowd. My only concern is that I may get over-excited or get carried away on a rant, I may say something that I’ll regret, and I don’t want to damage my sponsor hopes too much, especially after my average Personal Training Score. I think of ways to swoon the crowds, who would watch the children of death march in such fabulous clothing, parading the sacrifices of all twelve districts as glamorously as they can. I will shine brighter than any of them, of that I am certain. These people are simple, so easily impressed. I’ve watched tribute interviews for many years now and I know that they’ll laugh at things that the rest of Panem wouldn’t find remotely humorous. I’m not here to make them laugh, though, I’m here to make sure they know that I am their Victor. The sooner I relay that message, the better.

“Marble? Yes, I like that… Like I would be immortalized in history!”[/b] I say, sitting comfortably in my chair. Lepitera nods with a smile, happy that I am in agreement with her, but somewhat weirded out by my enthusiasm. I’ve gotten used to it - Most of the Games staff are accustomed to children being terrified by it all, as apposed to having one who thinks that it’s some kind of fun vacation. The room itself is extravagant. Mirrors hug the walls, all framed by a series of multi-colored light bulbs that shine dimly. Lepitera’s work table is full of strange ointments and large brushes, weird crayons and shiny instruments that look like they could cause pain. I’m unnerved by some tiny tweezers that she picks up in her thin fingers, coming closer to my face.
“Err…?”[/b] I mumble in confusion.
“Oh, don’t worry, I’m just going to remove a few hairs from your brow…” She explains, but my face does not ease off. I let her snap at my face with the tiny clips, wincing each time. The only way I get through the harsh pinches are by thinking of how perfect I will look when all of this is done.

It takes a few minutes of agony, but eventually she finishes. I look in the mirror and to my annoyance, I see no noticeable change. I blink angrily, like all of that pain was for nothing. She reaches to her table and takes a pot of powdery ointment. She dabs at it with a soft looking brush, turning to me once more.
“Now, we’re not going to make you look like a statue, we’re just going to give your face a bit of a shine, like it’s marble!” [/i]She explains, which relieves me. I didn’t want to look like some kind of golem. She covers my blemishes and impurities with the strange skin-colored paste, thin layers make it almost natural, but upon closer inspection, I do look a little shinier than usual, like I’m not from this world.
Like a Deity.

“Perfect” [/b]I say with a smile as she stops to show me my finished face. It’s more of less the same, but just a little glossier. My hair is perfectly combed to my right, tints of blonde seep through the dark brown in the autumn months. I am dressed in a velvet red suit, a white shirt, and a matching set of black bow-tie and cummerbund. The material of the red jacket and trousers is so soft that I could fall asleep in it. Once I‘ve crusaded my way through the storms of the Sixty-Second Hunger Games and I return to the Captiol as Victor, I will dress like this every day. I would deserve to.
“Thank you, Lepitera!”[/b] I smile, standing up to assess myself in the mirror. She beams back at me, pleased that I’m happy with my make-up and suit. The black cloud that is Tanisha enters our booth, her face a storm cloud to rain on our moment of joy.
“Time to go, Nine.” She says, addressing me as a number. I’d bark a response back at her, but she has already walked away, expecting me to follow. I swear under my breath and press after her, annoyed at her dirty existence.
“Good luck” [/i]Comes the petit voice of Lepitera behind me, her confidence crushed by the stern Escort for District Nine. I feel bad, but hopefully I’ll see her again. When I win this thing.

We go through a series of corridors that twist and turn at right angles. Technicians and backstage camera workers, all busy with their buttons and switches. I ignore their stares, like they already know who I am. I hear the buzz of the crowd, some chanting, some laughing or jeering in agreement with Caesar, who’s voice booms above anything else. I wish I could see the magnificence of that audience, but Tanisha detains me behind a large red curtain. Her authority stops me from taking a peek behind, just to see who’s speaking. It’s the District Eight girl, I know because that’s the general order it goes in. Males before Females in ascending districts. Naturally I figured it was her. What was her name? Wolfe? Yeah, just like her male counterpart. She annoys me before we’re even in the arena. Her name is an indication that she’s dangerous, plus the fact that her 9 bested my 8 in training. It should be the other way around. What makes her so special?

“Alright Drummond, you’re up…” Tanisha speaks to me like I’m dirt. I hear the crowd applauding Aria as she exits and I know that it’s my turn now. Before I go, there’s something that still needs to be said.
“You think you’re better than me?” [/b]I ask the dark faced woman who wears a scowl on her face, “You’re an escort, that‘s all… Me? I’m a Tribute. I’m glorious. I’m destined for greatness!”[/b] I spit with fury, because no one treats me like dirt. No one is higher than me. I am perfection, I don’t deserve this treatment, especially from low-lives like Tanisha, “You better hope I die in that arena, because if I come back, I’ll make sure you’re taken down a peg or two…”[/b] I say quietly, and she smiles. A cackle cracks from her lips, like she knows something I don’t.

And then I’m thrust into the limelight.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, District Nine’s very own Wednesdae Drummond!!” Rings Caesar’s voice through the catacombs of the hippodrome. The crowd erupt into a molten excitement, chanting and cheering - Screaming my name. I’m taken aback, still buzzing from my encounter with Tanisha, still confused about her laugh. I get my head in the right place and manage to start walking towards the ridiculously real figure of Caesar Flickerman. I’ve seen him on a screen countless times, but now he’s in the flesh and I’m taken aback a little. He gestures to a seat next to him, I don’t object, shaking him warmly by the hand as I do so.

“Well!” He begins, allowing a pause for the audience to settle down again, my eyes stray to the rainbow of citizens that oggle me. Caesar’s face is genuine and professional - I respect him already.
“Wednesdae Drummond IS District Nine!!”[/i] He chants, and the crowd erupt into cheering and laughter. It’s a mockery. He mimicked my words when I volunteered, when I declared that I was District Nine, and all that it represented. That was propaganda, I hate that scummy place. I don’t want to be associated with such filth, I only said it to gain support and look confident. I guess I can work with it still. I put on the most devilish smile I can conjure.
“Yes… Yes he is…”[/b] My voice is soft and dangerous. Caesar returns the smile, readjusting his seating position.

“Impersonations aside, Wednesdae, welcome!” He says, shaking my hand again, “It’s great to meet you!”[/i]
“Likewise”[/b] I say, I mean it in a way because he’s always been an idol. Someone who has always been able to get the best out of tributes. He comforts them and plays to their strengths. I hope he can work his magic on me too.
“So, let’s get down to business… Christoph Carlisle!” He begins, the crowd start a subdued buzz, like a hive of insects that are ready to swarm at an answer. An answer to a question that they all wonder about.
“Ah… Yeah, him…” I smile, laughing a little.
“You volunteered in place of that boy... May I ask why?” He leans back in his chair, and I follow suit.

I think to that day, to when Christoph confronted me in the crowd, blamed me for his actions in the forest. He called me a firestarter. Dirty, dirty firestarter. Liar. I can’t be responsible for his actions, nor who he makes himself. He was picked, not me. He deserved to be dragged to his death. Then I saw that I could be something more, this God among children. I grabbed the opportunity with both hands. Another shark-grin ripples on my lips, I allow my tongue to run across the top of my teeth.
“I’ll tell you why,” I begin, leaning in slightly, “…Carlisle would have embarrassed our whole District. I wasn’t going to stand by and let such an opportunity go to waste!”[/b] I almost laugh.

“An opportunity?” Caesar sounds surprised, as do a fair few of the audience.
“This is a once in a lifetime shot at fame, Caesar. My father used to tell me: Happiness is an illusion?” He nods, like he understands the analogy.
“So what you’re saying is that you‘re unhappy at home?” He asks, stroking his chin.
“What I’m saying is why settle for happiness when you can have glory? Look at this city, it’s magnificent! It’s people are incredible!”[/b] I butter up the crowd, who cheer in their own recognition and praise.
“I’m not going out there to try and stay alive, Caesar… I’m going out there to win!” [/b]I smile, he seems interested in my enthusiasm for the Games. Keep it going, Wes, you’re doing great.

“Well, you’re certainly full of confidence, young man!” [/i]He laughs, his moon-white teeth blind me. He gives it a few seconds to calm things down, let this strange confidence sink in with the audience, before he changes the subject.
“So, tell us about yourself Wednesdae, what kind of person are you?” [/i]He offers a base to work on, and I take it, wanting to get away from my own ambitions.
“I’m just a Blacksmith from District Nine…”[/b] I say with a shrug, “But I guess that was never enough for me.” I say honestly. Sure, I’ll miss that old forge. Those cold winter nights spent in that workshop, hacking away at some molten piece of metal, hoping that it will be as perfect as I envision it. The audience seem to warm to the sense that I’m just an ordinary kid aspiring for something more. In fact, my mission is much more twisted than that, I’m out to extinguish the existences of all the grimy little tributes that stand between me and that crown.

“I admire your vision, Wednesdae!” [/i]He smiles warmly, I feel like I’ve known him for years.
“Thank you”
“What of your family back home. Any siblings?” He asks, trying to get more personal with the Blacksmith. I lean back in my chair and sigh. I suppose my tactic was to be ruthless and cold, but really I don’t care what anyone thinks of me, in fact, the least I can do is be honest. I decide to tell him about my personal life.
“No, just me. My father is my icon, he taught be everything I know about Smithing. My mother cares about me more than anything else…” I remember the way she held me in the Justice Building, like she was never going to hold me again. Don’t worry ma’, I’ll be back.
“I bet they struggled to let you go?” He asks, the comment comes out a question.
“Yeah… That was the only difficult part of my decision to come here.”[/b] Because I’m being honest, because it really was hard for me to leave them behind. It’s all relative. It’s all for the greater good, right? I did this for them, because they deserve a better life. We all do. Away from the scum and the dirt. No more scraping by day-by-day, a good life is what I want, and what I’ll get. The crowd are subdued, soaking in this brief moment of emotion from me.

I get back to being cold.
“I stress that it was the only difficult part…” [/b]I smile, almost wickedly. A few laughs are heard in the crowd, but the rest are stares. I’m dangerously serious.
“Well, it looks like we’re almost out of time!” Caesar leans forward a little, adjusting himself on his little chair, “Before we go, do you have any messages for your fellow tributes?”[/i] He asks. This makes me smile more than anything that’s happened this week. I do have a message, and I lean towards a camera, staring at it like it’s the other twenty-three tributes. Staring into their mind and soul without even wincing. I make sure this message hits hard.

“You better arm yourselves… Grab whatever you can that can deal some serious damage, because as soon as you see my figure on the horizon, you best be sure that you kill yourself before I can get my hands on you…”[/b] I grin, and the audience gasp, taken aback by this vicious statement. Not a statement, I tell myself, a warning. A warning to stay out of my way, because I intend to make every death as slow as possible. Fear is my weapon, because if I have them scared senseless, I have this thing won.

“Because if I do catch you, you’ll be screaming for me to kill you…”[/b]

it's like a bad dream
something from the back of a magazine
black and white
and cheaply put together

[/i][/right]

[/size][/color][/blockquote]

---

notes: what is this i don't even. word vomit.

theme:[/color] "Pulp Fiction" - Motion City Soundtrack[/color][/size]

[Lulu]

[something filled up
my heart was nothing
someone told me not to cry]

[/i]
Atlas was a storyteller, not a performer. When he fabricated tales about the stars he observed in his mind, even when he scribbled them down on a formerly crumpled sheet of paper, they were purely for his own benefit, not for the entertainment of others. He did not seek approval for his work; he did not want approval for his work. The same went for his training; he was long past the point of training to please his father and instead trained to improve and satisfy himself. He did everything for himself, Atlas; in no aspect of his life did he care for the endorsement of others, which, in reality, was exactly what performance accomplished. So naturally, the interview portion of training week was not very far up his alley at all. In fact, he had been utterly dreading it, with a feeling of foreboding rising in his stomach upon every thought of the impending occasion.

"And now let's welcome Atlas Cornell, sixteen year old tribute of District Two!" boomed Ceasar Flickerman, as Atlas ascended the stage trying to calm his somersaulting stomach. It's stupid to be so nervous. You can handle this. You hadn't the Reaping. Big, strong Career who cowers at the idea of an interview? Weak. Absolutely weak. His outfit didn't particularly do anything to lift his spirits; he wasn't fond of the dark blue blazer he'd been dressed in, feeling too trapped in such a garment. But he'd had no choice in the matter; his stylist, Cream, had absolutely insisted. The tribute gave a small nod of greeting to the host, who launched immediately into the program. "Now tell me, Atlas, how confident do you feel about the Games now that you've seen your training score? A seven? Not too shabby."

Atlas squirmed with unease at this inquiry; though Ceasar called it not too shabby, he knew what the audience was thinking. A Career, getting less than an eight? Maybe this kid isn't as good as he looks. Maybe we shouldn't give him our money.[/color] Most importantly, he knew what his father was thinking: that he was nothing but a failure he had the displeasure to call a son. In truth, Atlas believed he had legitimately earned at least an eight; in his session he'd demonstrated skill with a knife, newly developed suturing skills, and most importantly his great strength, bashing his pseudo-pinata clean in half. "I thought I deserved higher," he said finally, finding his voice at last. "But I guess the Gamemakers have spoken; I'll just have to work harder to prove myself in the arena." Before dying, as you've sworn to do.

"Well you've been here for a couple of days now, Atlas! May I ask what's impressed you the most about it since you've arrived?" Although he'd asked the three tributes that had preceded him the same question, Atlas still found himself unprepared for it. What impressed him most about the Capitol? He wouldn't exactly call himself impressed; more awed, that a place such as this could exist. Humbled, when juxtaposing it with his modest mountain shack at home. Disappointed, by the fact that he could barely see any stars no matter how hard he scoured the sky at night. But the only thing that had truly impressed him? "The weapons," he responded in another low mutter. "I didn't have any of that kind of stuff back home; we trained with secondhand, rusty weapons most of the time." Stolen ones. "And rocks. Lots of rocks. So the stuff here is pretty unreal for me; I feel like I've learned so much more than I ever could've back in Two." Let's see what Nero thinks of that. His father would be slightly put-out by this implied jibe at his training regimen, no doubt. But he'd also approve of the critical skills Atlas was learning in the training center, because he still clung to the deluded hope that his boy would emerge champion.

Ceasar smiled; clearly this hadn't been an unconventional response for a Career tribute, though Atlas assumed most of the ones who came through the Games lived a bit more of a privileged life than he did. "Well you seem to be quite the strapping young lad, Atlas—have you caught the fancy of any girls back home? A special someone, perhaps?" The Career was taken aback by this; of course he didn't have a girl. He rarely talks to anyone save his father and brother. "No," he answered, a bit quicker than he'd intended. Apparently Ceasar could see that the topic wasn't a welcome one, so he quickly reverted to something else. "Well then what do you like to do in the time you aren't training, if you don't spend it with a girl?"

A cluster of possible answers ran through Atlas's head, though each and every one of them was forbidden territory for a Career like him. He couldn't very well tell the whole of Panem that he spent his nights stargazing, could he? He couldn't reveal that he concocted stories about the constellations; it'd be improper and he'd become the laughingstock of the nation for sure. "I, um... The sixteen-year-old searched desperately for an acceptable response, settling finally on the most innocuous aspect of his hobby. "I... I climb the mountain I live on. A lot. I like to climb." It was a bit of a pathetic answer, and Atlas was pretty sure the majority of the audience could see right through it. See that he was hiding something, that climbing wasn't the only thing he liked to do. Even his father.

"Well... what about your family? What are they like?" Ceasar asked; Atlas hoped this interview was nearing its end, because he wasn't sure how much longer he could handle this. "And do you miss anything in particular from home? Them, perhaps?" The teenager nearly laughed aloud at this; he didn't miss Nero and Scorpius; in fact, it was quite a relief to be away from the two of them. "Well it's just me, my dad, and my twin brother, Scorpius..." he explained, wondering what, exactly, he should say about them. "They're both very training-focused. We all are." Understatement of the year. Sometimes it seemed that all the Cornell family lived for was training; this was part of the reason why it was so important for him to hide his nighttime escapades up the mountain. "And I think more than anything... I just miss how familiar home was. How constant." Atlas wasn't a proponent of change, and he'd never wanted more than his simple life on the mountainside of Distirict Two. Sure, he'd set his sights on the Hunger Games, but it hadn't occurred to him just how much of an interruption they would be. An interruption he could never overcome.

At that moment the buzzer sounded, and Atlas gratefully rose from his chair, but not before Ceasar could fit in one final question. "Quickly, before you leave! Is there anything in particular you'd like to say to your fellow tributes? After all, you'll all be sharing an experience unlike any other very shortly." The host made it sound much lighter, more exciting; nothing like they would be entering an arena to fight to the death. How could you possibly address the people you were about to kill? The people who were about to kill you? "Good luck," he decided on finally, because he knew that each and every one of them deserved to make it home a hell of a lot more than he did. Thankful that the ordeal was over, the tribute from Two descended the steps and returned to his seat, staring down into his lap until he felt the searing gazes of the audience and the other tributes fade away.

[but now that i'm older
my heart's colder
and i can see that it's a lie]

[/blockquote][/size][/color][/justify][/center]