A Different Kind of Game \\ [70th Gamemakers]

[Sunrise Rainier D2 // [Thundy]]

______________________

You can give me guns and politics and
I'll just make a mess of it, you know

This post-Reaping party smells like alcohol and sounds like high heels clicking against the floor, and all of these fucking people have fake teeth. I try not to notice it, I really do, but there’s nothing that makes a guy feel more abnormal than putting him in a flock of people who are dressed in a completely different fashion. Now I can’t stop noticing the small details: fake teeth, fake noses, fake eyelashes. Some people have even dyed their skin a bright pinkish red, making them look like a bunch of overripe strawberries.

Still, the fashion I can deal with. Their forced pleasantries, though..

Let’s just say I’ve never had much of a poker face, and it’s hard to pretend to care about people I’ve just met, people that I may never see again. And even if I did recognize a face in the crowd, who’s to say that I could meet them again? These people change their faces like masks, shifting from one fashion to another in a matter of days when they get bored.

Throughout the night, I’ve been bombarded with a host of people searching me out to congratulate me on the position of Head Gamemaker along with Charlie Garnet, and after a while the attention becomes too much to handle. I end up ducking into an emptier section of the venue – a small bar, overshadowed by the crowded areas outside – only to find my co-Gamemaker sitting at a barstool.

We’ve spent a good portion of the day going through the Reapings, and I absolutely loved it. The tributes are fascinating, and it’s always interesting to examine how they behave in response to their names being called. Some of the tributes stood up valiantly, whereas others simply seemed frightened. Not that I blame them, but in these circumstances it’s best to show a little strength. Some actually took the stage to volunteer, which was courageous of them; I made sure to make a note of the volunteers on a paper, so I know to watch out for them later. Though volunteers aren’t the only tributes that inevitably show bravery, I’ve found that they’re  more willing to face the challenges ahead, and that can’t always be said for those who don't have a choice in the matter.

Still, I worry that I annoyed my coworker with all my rambling about the tributes and the bets I wanted to make, and I want to change whatever negative impression I’m making.

That’s why, a few minutes later, I have a drink in my hand. We’re playing a sort-of drinking game, asking each other questions and drinking when we don’t want to share the answer. The questions were my idea; the alcohol was hers.

(To be honest, I’ve never really been comfortable with the idea of drinking alcohol, but this time – because I want to gain her trust, because I don’t want to mess these Games up by ruining what aspect of teamwork we have – I accept, sipping at a sharp-tasting drink that she mixed for me herself.)

It’s my turn to ask a question, and the alcohol hasn’t quite taken an effect. I feel almost nervous in her presence - not wanting to mess anything up, not wanting to seem impolite – and I find myself smiling, wracking my brain for a question, feeling more than a little bit like I’m intruding somehow.

”What’s your family like?” I ask after a moment, trying to smile, trying to encourage an answer.

(And I think that I’m going to need more to drink.)

[shrimp]

She hates crowds with a passion. With her luck there's always someone who swears "I've met you before," from long ago. "Have we met before?" No, never. She always leaves far too quickly to allay suspicions, but oftentimes they're far too drunk in the environment to notice the awkward girl with sickly pale skin slipping into the crowd.

The social circles that used to chain her up always seemed to revolve around this glorious event. To them this is their ambrosia, their nectar from which they sip and cheer, scream and yelp with carnal desire (she's not oblivious to what she's doing, never was). Their jeers haunt her at night; how she wound up here she's not even sure anymore.

Here at least, being the bar.

The bartender sees her look, knows her type and knows her from the promos; he leaves as she takes his place. Normally the room would be dark, but it's been flooded with the brilliant technicolors of the party outside. Floor-to-ceiling windows drape the wall behind the bar and as she makes herself an amaretto sour she can hear the faint cannon fire. Fireworks today - in a week from now though, not quite the same thing.

Charlie hears the heels hit the parquet floor before she sees him - Warren Whip, betting extraordinare. He rambled on and on to her just hours ago, as the two of them sat in the viewing room - which tribute shows spunk, would probably fizzle our early - how he got that from split second introductions she wouldn't know. But she trusts him, she supposes: he's made millions, after all. Much more than the people she used to know.

But now Warren Whip wants to take another gamble - with her.
Well she'd better get her trick dice out. Liquid luck, as she calls it.
20 questions, it's just 20 questions how drunk can you get?

”What’s your family like?” Smile.

Absolutely hammered.

It takes half a second for her to gulp the fireball down (she knows from his gait, his uncertainty with the glass that he doesn't want the booze - she's started off with the easy stuff). Charlie looks at him once more, just to make sure he understands. She's sure he does.

"What's your betting secret?"