the one before the campaign | mayor one-shots [80th]

[d6a georgie cham 🍓🐢 frankel]

”Dear Ripred, here we go again!” Not only is it another games but the run up to the next elections. How convenient of them to throw one every quell. Pierre begs that there will not be a re-run of the last quell although the election results of that one is highly preferred.

Back to the usual routine, the choice of uniform is up to him this year, the Capitol’s worries are on perfecting the festivities that come with the quell. ”The eightieth, just twenty more years and there will have been one hundred games…” It is a thought that he shares with his wife in the morning of the reaping. ”I wonder what twist the hundredth will have, maybe they will start reaping adults or worse, infa…” He doesn’t continue his sentence, the thought sickens his stomach and he just shakes his head. A plain grey suit and a scruffy beard, he bets the officials will be horrified by his image, but it is one day of the year where he wants to feel comfortable. Feel comfortable while watching two of his citizens being shipped off to slaughter.

The early autumn sun burns through the curtains of the kitchen window, he is the first to be fully up, along with the little terrier dog that attaches itself to his ankles. ”Don’t worry, your breakfast is coming up.” Pierre plates up the left over mutton from the night before for Pip and then tends to himself. Leaning against the kitchen counter, he shovels the porridge oats into his mouth, waiting for the others to come downstairs. It is a hurried morning, no sitting around the table and talking about the day ahead…not that it is common thing for the household to practice.

There is no talk today, it has been five years. Five years since the last quell. Five years since Pierre became mayor. Five years since their last daughter died. It is a year of mourning and campaigning.

With a kiss goodbye to Abi and Preston, Pierre slips out. The walk to the town square is a quiet one, it won’t be long until the hustle and bustle erupts in the streets. Pierre lets these hours of peace sink in as he bursts through the double doors of the justice building. There really is no reason for Pierre to be present on that stage, just an image for the citizens to not notice. So many faces accompany the fresh tributes and all the eyes are on them. Pierre’s role is just to disappear behind the spotlight, no speech but to be a part of the audience on the stage. It is one part of his role as mayor where he really has no power.

”Good morning everyone, back at it again ayyy!” A forced smile peaks from behind his strawberry blonde beard. ”I hope that chair outside is comfy.” He gets his usual reception from the officials, nods and hurried bodies. For the entire year he has tried to maintain a peacefully relationship with them but whenever the games roll by it breaks up and Pierre just lets it. They all seem to forgive him when the finale ends. Well after the scene of last year, he really needed to work on making amends and fixing the hole in the wall of the justice building…and his broken knuckles.

”Any idea on what the twist is?” Pierre is given a reply of shaking heads and shrugs. ”Well what a surprise we have in store then.”

Pierre sits with his arms crossed, the autumn chill takes hold of him and he regrets not taking a coat out with him today. His usually friends and family support group has continued to these games, he begs that no tribute be from a large family or a relative of a past participant in the games. He really cannot deal with all the drama again.

And so, the usual gibberish begins, they really need to update the yearly escort material…

”Sable Delamore.”

“Oliver Wren”

No volunteers follow the unknowns to the stage, this may be an interesting year…

---

”A four and a five? Damn this going to be a boring year!” The training scores of his tributes are revealed and they really are not impressive at all. The whispered betting in his office is on how early they are likely to fall rather than either of them winning. ”This isn’t going to help me at all, we really are going to need a miracle.”

Back to his usually position of burying his head into his arms on his desk, all he can do is wait for the bloodbath and prayer that at least one of them comes out of it alive.

---

”They both got out unscathed, well there were no cannons so it really isn’t that impressive.” The thirst for blood is strong in his office but Pierre is more relieved. There will be no embarrassment of a premature death this year but still, there has been no cannon fire and his tributes are not in the best of positions.

”Well they are not hurt so that can be some relief.”

”They did flee from the fight early, neither of them is fully equipped.”

”Can we just be pleased that they are alive?”

”Well of course but…”

Pierre pushes himself to his feet at the desk, cutting the official’s sentence short. ”They have their lives and we should be pleased. Update me if anything escalates, I have a support group to go to.” With a huff and a puff, Pierre escapes from the madness in his office. Hopes of an easy games before the storm of the elections have not been granted to him. This is going to be his hardest year as mayor…

[d6a georgie cham 🍓🐢 frankel]

The start of the third day of the games and only two deaths are carried through. There is no doubt in Pierre’s fears, for sure the pair are unlikely to carry any feat like Shelby, but a strong performance could just push him over the line to reclaiming the seat again.

Another day but the same routine, a huddle of figures, some who he doesn’t even know the purpose of all with their eyes on the television and little screens in their hands. Technology brought from a far away place, equipment he is rarely allowed to touch. Secluded to use a piece of paper and a pen, a pre-historic creature compared to the brains busying about around him. Pierre sits in his usual position, a desk he has grown so fond of, an aching back has hardened to its rough frame.

”A drop of whiskey for each of you!”

Frowns are returned to his painful grin, the idea of drowning this whole day in alcohol is enough to get him through to the evening. One negative line on the job description – dealing with the games. It is more complicated than just putting on a smile for those in mourning, sitting behind his desk watching the demise unfold and delivering a scripted speech to sweep away the mess it has left behind. A personal strife that sinks him to the edge of his chair, a conflict that pops open the bottle every evening. Five years later and he still hasn’t found the balance, will five years more do it?

Oliver Wren a lone wanderer, the charts in the hands of Pierre’s colleagues state that he is unlikely to survive one day more. All these calculated statistics, if they are so sure on what is going to happen then why bother watching? Pierre watches through a glass of just milk, the disapproval of starting on the hard stuff early was so apparent from the others.

”What kind of beast is that?” Pierre says as he waves his arm up at the screen. So many hideous creatures have roamed the arenas, each claiming one life or another. He thinks it is the cruellest of ways to go, a dormant mind with no thought in the kill. An adult quest is long overdue, he just begs mayors are immune for a mutation would surely be the end of him.

”They call it a ground sloth.”

Ripred seems to favour Oliver, his sword performing the most vicious of tricks on the beast. Tension is so clear in his office, teeth biting into lips and the internal chant of the male tribute’s name, this should be an easy defeat for Mr Wren…

”Dear Ripred!” Pierre’s fist bounces off the surface of the desk in rhythm with the canon sound. An instant death, a skull crumbled and there goes one of his chances. ”What a cruel way to go.”
Mutters float around the room, Pierre’s imperative stance so clearly vanishes as the glass of milk is quickly consumed. ”Lets hope Sable can fend off that hoard.”

Attentions are quickly traced to the female tribute, any time for mourning Oliver is switched away as the biggest fight of the day is displayed on the television. A clear fight sketched for only one reason, a replacement for the bloodless day one.

Pierre rubs his forehead with the palm of his hand, it is so apparent how this is going, he imagines the canon before he hears it. His last tribute swept away by the hand of the District Twelve.

Pierre pushes himself onto his feet, slamming his chair back into his desk. ”Lets hope that twist is a good one, this District has had enough.” Silence holds those in the room as the door behind him rattles as he forces it shut. He’ll be starting the liquor early today.

---

Five days since the early demise of his tributes and Pierre has even had a haircut. A neatly trimmed beard and a maintainable mop of hair, anything to hide the restless nights. Failure fills the environment of District Eight, both tributes barely recognised as warriors, the career advantage overshadows the spirit of the lower Districts.

Today is the finale, there are no District Eights to cheer on but the town square is full in anticipation for the President’s announcement. Theories have bounced around Pierre’s office, talk of two victors or none at all. It really would not surprise Pierre if they killed all twenty-four, there would be some dramatized reason behind it.

Pierre sits alone in his office in the justice building as he watches the finale, this time treating himself two small glass of whiskey with to cubes of ice and a hard to come by slice of lemon. He is expected to show his face outside at some point during the finale, but the face of failure is not what the citizens need to see.

He holds no bet on who will come victorious from the group of four, for he does not care. He will be forced to accommodate one of them during the tour and he just begs it is not Denali Lyons, too much of a handful for him to give a tour.

Head resting on his knuckle, he sips the glass, letting the scene flash in his eyes. No thoughts circulate his mind except the yearning for it to be all over. Soon preparations for the election will begin and he wants the stress to be unleashed from him.
Before the crown can be placed on the District Four’s head the screen cuts, the vicious face of President Snow capturing it. Another scripted speech, he admires how effortlessly the President can spill the lies to the mass crowd of Panem.

”…The tributes of the 80th Games have been revived by the most skilled of physicians…”

There is a change in the atmosphere from outside his office window, he can’t tell if it is a cheer or a rumble, but that one sentence changes it all. Oliver and Sable are alive. The tributes will be coming home.

But he does not rise to his feet with a spring in his step, brilliant news has been delivered to the District but one thought secures him to the nearly empty glass of whiskey in his hand.

If they were able to revive the dead, why didn’t they revive all the others? Lily…Paige…Eva…

His duty calls and he swallows the thought. It is time to fake the smiles and pin up the decorations. A welcome party needs to be planned…