call me out | (five-sides plot)

[dars]

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[bg=ffffff][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=width,500,true] k e i f e r degraw tonight my head is spinning i need something to pick me up i've tried, but nothing is working let's go, we're gonna light it up My fingers beg for warmth, even after the sun begins to reach into the sky. It looks the same, brilliantly bright, and difficult to look at for more than just a second, but it exhibits little to no warmth. I look around me at the other hopeful faces, all a part of one of the five centers good enough to be a part of the tournament. It is really simple, actually. Every five years, a team works to recreate places in Hunger Games arenas, choose one contestant from each center, and let them compete. At the end, only one will win, but it is great publicity regardless. All five centers have gathered in the largest center by far, an elite one located directly in the center of District Two, and each of us stand here, patiently waiting for names to be called. Death isn't really a concern with these things, if you are a good enough career, that is. There have been rare instances when one of the worst careers in a center is chosen- one clearly not fit to even participate, and they can't handle the tasks given. I have always been a fan of the Five-Sides Tournament, and I have kept tabs on it since I was a boy. My brother and I watched it, you see. The rules are simple. Each participant attempts the task, and they are graded on a scale of one to five. In the end, the one with the highest score wins. The tasks are something miraculous in themselves. Once, there was one based off of the arena that spent pretty much the entire course of the games on fire- it had gotten pretty intense. It has been a dream of sorts to end up getting to compete, and this is my one and only shot. There are hundreds that go to the same training center as me, though, and I have accepted the fact that it just might not be me. Four mean and one woman walk onto the stage in the middle of the huge enclosed area in which we all stand. They each stop once they come to the mesh wire bowl that holds the names of their trainees, and the first one raises a microphone to his mouth. "Good evening, young ladies and gentlemen!" His voice is powerful. "Once again, it is time for the Five-Sides Tournament to take place!" There is a collective gasp. He goes on about the history of the tournament, and how it has been a tradition for thirty years now, and smiles. "As head of this fine institution in which we all stand, I will begin the tournament by selecting the first name!" He turns the crank and the paper slips begin to shuffle. I can't help relating this to the games, and I think that is the point of the entire thing. To give us a small dose of what could be ours if our names were ever to be called. Finally, he stops and reaches his hand inside. "Asa Reau!" I can't see any movement at first, but eventually, a tall boy with dark hair claims the stage and quietly takes his place next to the man that has spoken. He hands to microphone over to the next man- the owner of the training center I attend in the north, and he waists no time. He twists the knob, and eagerly shoves his hand into the small pit of names. Please be me. Please be me. "Keifer Degraw!" Yes. There is a tone of excitement in his voice, as if he is pleased with his contestant. I try to keep my face neutral as I push passed all of those that won't ever know what it is like and take my place next to him. Like me, Mr. Crenshaw is trying his hardest not to explode from cheer, and it instills in me a sense of confidence, like maybe I have a chance. My head is still in a blur or excitement, so I almost miss the next man's voice. "Holton Forbes!" A group of girls shriek in delight, and a pretty girl with a nice tan and blonde hair almost sprints up to the stage. Next is the woman who speaks. "Representing the south is.. Bette Chautin!" Another girl, equally as pretty as Holton comes up to the front after a boy lifts her into the air with glee. She is tall and skinny, with kind eyes. I decide that she will either be my biggest or smallest competition. The last man smiles as he reads the name he has chosen. "Leander Delacroix!" A rather skinny boy with dark hair and a matching personality shoves himself passed anyone that doesn't move. Edgy. I decide I like it. The microphone is passed back to the first man, and he raises his arms into the air. "Well, there you have it! The official participants in the Five-Sides Tournament of Careers!" And there is an applause for us all. My heart beats so hard I think it may fall out of my chest, but I try to ignore it. I actually made it. Only one thought crosses my mind. Grady would be so proud.

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ooc: zoe, tristen, python, elegant, please excuse the quality of this post. xD

[Python]

In a perfect world, Leander would’ve been born a man.

Technically he was a man to the eyes of every beholder but one; his hair was cropped short and wild, his muscles were toned and fit, his clothes were baggy and formed to suit the body of a male, and he was very gruff in nature. Not exactly stereotypically male, but enough to convince everyone that Leander was indeed one of the boys. Beneath the careless attitude and loose clothes, however, was a female’s body. He had breasts flattened to cardboard with firm sports bras, organs that could bleed and breed signs of womanhood, and the memories of a prince that had once danced with gowns and bejeweled tiaras. He had discovered the world as Leanne Delacroix, twin sister and daughter to a broken family, but now he was embracing a new world as Leander Delacroix, son and brother to a perfect career family.

At its highest point the sun was merciless as it rained heat down upon its victims, beating invisible waves against sweaty foreheads above eyes that were eager to drink today’s festivities. The Five-Sides Tournament’s contestants would be announced within the hour, and Leander was as hopeful as the next esteemed career that he would be selected among hundreds of vicious, hormonal teenagers to compete in a game that would require only skills rather than a sacrifice. It was a competition designed to remain within the district’s boundaries and perfected to prevent casualties (unless somebody was too stupid to be saved), and instead of twenty-four children there would be only five – one for each training center, and in order for one’s name to make nominations they would have to be the best of the best. The prize was limited only to careers, as it should be. But Leander did not know if his name would rest among the hundreds from his center in the west. He could only hope that his skills had proven worthy.

Behind him, he could practically feel the shivers radiating from his brother’s nerve-stricken body. Archer was a bashful thing compared to his cactus-for-a-heart brother, and would want nothing more than to slip out of the crowd unnoticed and pray that his name would not be called. Leander knew he was an artist with a bow and arrow, capable of painting a canvas red with fake blood from over twenty feet away, but competitions were not his place. He already questioned their new lives as men; how could he be trusted in a competition like this if he couldn’t even find his own identity? Leander would be proud of his brother if he were to be chosen, but he would rather it be himself. His chances were much greater, and his heart well-sculpted for excitement like this.

Asa Reau was first to approach the stage. He was a tall, handsome thing, and fierce competition for a career like Leander, he could tell. Next came Keifer Degraw, another handsome statue that wore a neutral expression as he ascended the stage and took his rightful place. As the next man stepped up to the center and dipped his hands into the container of worthy opponents, Leander faintly wondered if the boys onstage were battling to contain their excitement, as he certainly would. ”Holton Forbes!” High-pitched shrieks of delight warned him that it was a female who had been chosen this time, and he felt relieved. How boring would a competition full of boys be? Some variety was certainly welcome in his book.

Representing the south center was Bette Chautin, and all he could think about was how blonde and ditzy the girls looked, though he knew better than to underestimate appearances. If their names had been worthy enough to make the ranks than they would be difficult competitors to beat, which would make this game all the more interesting to watch if Leander wasn’t selected. That’s when the moment he and his comrades had been waiting for suddenly arrived; the founder of their training center in the west marched to the front of the stage and submerged his hand into the pool of names. It could be Leander, it could be Archer, it could be anybody, male or female – as long as they were skilled, they would each have an equal shot. Leander tensed as the man’s eyes scanned over the slip of paper.

”Leander Delacroix!”

He couldn’t believe his ears; it was him! With a shit-eating grin he winked at Archer and pushed his way out of the crowd, shoving anyone who refused to stray out of his path. He could hear his heart thumping and feel the added heat in his rushing bloodstream, spiced up with vigor and enthusiasm at this opportunity. Finally, after watching it for all of these years he could participate! And it wasn’t like the Hunger Games, which demanded travel and death and drama – this was all for the sake of dirty career fun, with just a dash of glory. The only thing that could be ruined was a reputation, and Leander was fine with that, because he knew his reputation would only grow over the course of this game.

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[✨ zozo.]

H O L L Y F O R B E S The odds in favor of an event or a proposition is the ratio of the probability that the event will happen to the probability that the event will not happen. So the odds for this thing in my head to ever leave me alone are 0 to infinite, written as 0: 8, which means I am stuck with this forever and ever and have to block it out of my head in fear of it one day bursting from the seams in my skin and showing itself to the world around me. I fill it with Capitol trends and fake friends and let them consume me. Nobody asks if I finished my homework or solved that math equation because nobody cares. (I don't care either - what they don't know can't hurt me.) But it doesn't stop. Not ever. It's ingrained into me - like trying to forget how to read. The letters appear in front of your eyes and words jump out at you. I am too nervous, too scared, to control it. And it seeps through the cracks of my conscience and embeds itself in my every thought. A hand reaches into the bowls, calls a name, and it begins. There are 582 names entered into that bowl, divided by 5 equals 116.4 (rounded to 116) for my area, giving me a 100 x 1 divided by 116 which equals a 0.86206896551 chance of hearing - "Holton Forbes!" - echo across the walls. I hear the first syllable and inhale. And the rest of the name follows and I slouch, not me. But there's people grabbing at me and jumping up and down and in a blink of an eye I am reminded that oh, in fact, that is me. Not Holly, but Holton. I am Holton. A cacophony of excited screams surround me. I am chosen, met by hugs and shrieks of delight and pats on the back and, in the corner of my eye, jealous glares and fake smiles. And I become them all - a spur of emotion floating through my body as I bound through the crowds. Joy curves between my ears and stretches through the spaces in my skin as I leap to claim my place upon the stage and challenge for the crown. (I am so delighted at my odds that I almost forget to be furious with myself, my mind and the way it ticks.) "Congrats Holly, well done Holly, Holly, Holly, Holly" fills me to the core and drowns out the freakshow inside my head. Although if I am to win (there is no other option other than success), the freakshow may in fact be my silent little secret to victory. template by chelsey