Vodka almost gets me with his immature ear-blowing trick. It’s a new one, I’ll give him that. He was so close, and my fist was even closed around his collar, so close to his throat. I almost started something, right there in the elevator.
Almost.
I beeline away from him, because the absolute last thing I need is for him to break my calm on day one. Pushing him from my mind, I try to just get to a station he’s not occupying. Already, I can see the little weasel molesting a red head girl. Good, as long as it’s not me.
Since the wrestling station is on the other side of the training center, that’s where I head. I never took a firm liking to wresting. You have to get so close to your opponent, so personal. I don’t quite function that way. I lean towards shields, to keep people at a distance.
That’s not going to be an option in the arena.
I’m of a standard height and weight, so I have no strong advantages or disadvantages in this station. I know how to fight, though, and it can’t be too difficult from brawling and throwing punches. It’s the same thing, really.
Just, without the throwing punches part.
Approaching the station and listening to the trainer instruct is routine for me. Instead of focusing all my attention on them, I finally allow myself to focus on someone other than my District Partner.
And lo and behold, right across from me is probably the only Tribute I will be able to stand for the next week. Maybe even get along with.
I remember the boy from District Two’s reaping. He was calm, calculated, and pristine. Things I find valuable. He’s orderly looking, staring at me without a smile.
Oh, I do appreciate this boy.
“That wouldn’t be beneficial to either of us.”
It’s the girl from One. Her hair is a sleek white curtain of heavy snow. Pristine is the first word that comes to mind. She’s smaller than me, and appears less muscular. And yet I know that she is a Career, and there is a certain steel in her eyes, cold, shining, stainless. I nod at her words.
“I assume that we can both dispense with any pretences. I am trained to subdue, and you are trained to fight. The match, I think, is equal. And the Games allow little room for pretending."
Two instructors begin to demonstrate some stances and grips, and whilst I keep a respectful eye on them, I cannot help but find this Career girl intruiging. She is unlike most people I know - less frivolous or crass. I do not think either of us waste words. When the trainers are no longer talking and are showing us the positions, I allow myself to speak again.
"I admire Careers. To devote yourself to the Games is worthy. Perhaps I would have become one rather than a Peacekeeper, had it not been for the... attitude of some of my peers." The arrogance they held, thinking that they were more than pieces, players, servants to the Capitol. Thinking that they were bigger than the state.
The demonstration finishes, and the trainer smiles at us (I do not like the unnatural and unreal stretch of it, and several of his teeth are fake and golden, but I remind myself he is in a position of authority), and encourages us to begin fighting. Looking Dina in the eye, I nod slightly, and wait for her to move. I do not deal in dodging, in quick reflexes and lunging. Slower, now, slower and stronger.
The Peacekeeper and the Career share a second of silence in a room filled with fighting and noise. But through the calm is a sense that this is just the eye of the storm.
This fact becomes obvious as soon as I step into the training centre. Many people have arrived before me, but they must be early, because I am always on time. I check every clock I walk by. Lateness is inexcusable, but earliness too can be construed as disrespectful. I arrive on time, punctual, ready. But suddenly, as I look about the room, I realise I am not quite sure what I am ready for. Because most of this room is entirely new to me.
My weapons are clubs, whips, tasers, not knives and swords and axes. They are too sharp. Mine are designed to subdue, not to slit. Perhaps my weapons of choice will not be in the arena, and so I must learn to use these - and yet a sort of pride stops me approaching the swords for fear of making a fool of myself. A boy from Two, incompetent with a sword? I do not want to bring shame on the legacy of my District. So I make my way over to the most familiar station: wrestling.
As I arrive, I note that a figure is already there. Common courtesy and Valerie’s advice to find an ally forbids me from ignoring them entirely, and besides, I will probably have to wrestle with them for a moment, so I look them in the eye. I do not smile. I am not happy. I will not fake a smile. I fake nothing. I am, once again, turned to stone by a glance.
Small talk is not my strong point. Talking to people of my own age, well, I would go so far as to call it a definite weakness. But Valerie said forming relationships were important, and I vowed to do as she said.
“Have you ever done this before? I can go easy on you if you would like.”
Perhaps, I realise after I say it, that was not the most likable of conversation starters.
With the noise of the crowd still loud (so loud) in my ears, I pick up my jacket and pull it back on. I did not like being so exposed. I did not like feeling, though I tend to avoid the use of metaphor and simile, like a piece of meat. I know I should not have these opinions - in fact, I strive not to have an opinion at all on most matters - but the stares and the comments were odd and uncomfortable. They reminded me of my mother, long spidery eyelashes batting as a hand slid across the chest of a man who was not my father.
My skin is still grey, like stone, but that bit I do not mind. It is silly and vain, and father always told me a Peacekeeper has no time for vanity, but I like the demeanor of strength it provides. The acting, though, that was another story. I do not act. Actors are liars, and lying is wrong. If we are not honest at all times, secrets are kept. And secrets are always harmful. Each one appears like a crack in the stone, harmless enough alone, but one crack breeds another, and they lengthen, until one secret destroys the whole stone foundation.
But my skin bears no cracks. I will keep it that way.
I walk over to a table laden with food, and pour myself a drink of some red liquid. I do not know what it is. I hope that it is not alcohol, as in my experience alcohol does nothing but make fools of people, but it is hot in the room and I am too thirsty to pay it much attention. I swallow the drink in one gulp. It burns my throat, and does little to quench my thirst, so I have another. That is when I decide I do not like it.
That is also when I have a pressing desire to sit down.
Finding my legs unnaturally unresponsive (though I have self control, and force myself to take slow steps, making myself walk steadily), I find a seat beside another person. Normally I would just sit down, but this is a party not dissimilar to my mother's, and it feels appropriate to pick up some social cues. So, ignoring the slight swirling in my head, I click my heels together and stand up straight, looking them in the eye. Be respectful. Represent your District well. We are a respectful people.
“Excuse me. I would like to sit down. Is this seat available?”
Familial farewells pass with little event. My mother manages to turn on the tears, but neither me nor my father are convinced, and it is mainly the man guarding the door who seems taken in by her. You can always tell that her tears are fake, because she makes sure to cry in a manner where she still looks beautiful. Father, on the other hand, does not cry. I cannot imagine him crying, even as a baby, and I feel that to do so would be disrespectful, so I will drop the subject. He just looks blank, perhaps disappointed that I cannot be the Peacekeeper he has trained me to be. It is unusual, but he claps a hand on my shoulder, and the gesture is firm but not aggressive, perhaps even gentle.
“If you win, there will still be a place for you.”
“Thank you, sir.”
For a second, a flicker of something passes over his eyes, like clouds rolling by a keyhole. But then he removes his hand, stands up straight, and I mirror his stance.
“Goodbye, Ramus.”
“Goodbye, my darling baby boy! I love you!”
“Goodbye.”
They leave, mother’s act of feigned hysteria now dropped, (I could not tell her that I loved her back, because she is a liar, and I despise liars), and I am escorted onto the train by Peacekeepers who I know and have trained with. One, a red-haired boy barely older than me, pulls me into a friendly hug and I stiffen with astonishment that he would even consider doing such a thing, my arms at my sides. I almost consider tazing him, too, but he seems to remember himself, and lets go.
“Good luck, Ramus.”
“Cobb. And thank you.”
I board the train.
The inside is much more lavishly decorated even than my own home, and reminds me of one of the parties that my mother took me to, and a mansion owned by a rich man who she was trying to impress. Everything is in shades of red and gold. Good. Capitol colours. I want to look up, to take in the chandeliers, the elaborate carved ceilings, but someone enters and I stand to attention, expecting my partner, the Taveri girl. Instead, it is my Mentor and Escort, and I take a moment to take them in.
She, though I confess I have little eye for such things, is beautiful. Her hair is like my mothers’ when she hasn’t straightened it for the public gaze, and she smiles with straight white teeth. I am not used to genuine smiles, but I read that a genuine smile shows in the eyes, and hers does. I decide to like her, as she has proved herself in the past to be a good citizen, and not to cause any rabble or rebellion.
The man, Iago, has a much colder face. I have never liked his sharp tongue or crass jokes, but, I remind myself, he is an authority figure from the Capitol. That surely must cancel out any doubts I have about how genuine, how truthful the man is. I look both of them in the eye, click my heels together and salute. The woman smiles, and the man gives a snort.
“No need for the formalities, kid. I was only coming to tell you there’s a massive buffet in the other room, so if you wanna drop the creepy staring and go stuff your face, that’d be great.”
“And even if you’re not hungry, which I wouldn’t blame you for, the Reapings are about to start in there. It’s always useful to check out your competition. I’m not sure where Lapis is, but she’s probably in her room, and she can watch it in there or join us if she likes.”
Lowering my hands to my side, I nod at the woman and try to quell my rising irritation with the man. He is my superior. And anyway, it does nobody any good to let personal feelings get in the way of things. To make a fuss would be foolish. So, calmly and silently, I follow them into the next room.
Soft plushy seats covered in velvet sit around, and there is a long table covered with food on each side of the room, and a huge screen at the front. Iago is already seated, his plate piled high with brightly coloured and sugary pastries. Who would have thought that such a sour man would have such a sweet tooth, I think, and then reprimand myself for it. My mentor takes a bowl full of exotic fruits, and joins him. I myself decide to sample a purplish-brown stew that fills the air above it with thin fingers of smoke. Then I sit down, and watch as I eat.
District One, as always, look strong and confident. The girl has long, light hair and is stark and clean, and the boy has cold eyes and wears a smirk.
“One’s always competition, and this year doesn’t look like an exception. I’d do the normal and team up. It was a big help for me.”
I nod at her words, but I am not sure I like them. I am not sure they will like me. We will have to see.
Two is next, and as I watch the replay of me tazing Tuff, I can’t help but smile a little at the expression on his face. Then my face returns to mirror how it is on the screen - blank, solemn, stoic, void.
“You look very handsome, very strong, very composed. People will have you down as competition already, especially with the whole tazer thing.”
Iago snorts again. “Yeah, competition if they want to be the most boring teenager on the planet,” then he makes eye contact with Valerie, who gives him what can only be described as a look. “But yeah, I guess he does look pretty strong. Calm, and all.”
Now Three is up. The girl, I already have some respect for. She does not make a fuss, she does not seek attention, and he says that she hopes she can make Panem proud. As I am to be thinking of allies, surely a common goal is enough to unite people. The boy is quite small, quite thin, and there’s some dispute regarding his name that I don’t quite understand, but aside from that he does not really stand out.
“Dunno if the boy’ll last long, but I’ve got that chick pegged for a fighter.” Iago sucks the sugar off his fingers.
Then it’s the turn of the final Career District, Four. They are meant to be my natural allies. I watch closely. The girl seems confident, and she’s pretty, all to be expected from a Career. The boy surprises me a little, as he seems young, and has a very friendly face. Still, perhaps there is strength beneath the surface. Perhaps he is acting. Perhaps he is lying. I will not ally with him if he is.
Five is next. The girl has red hair, and a shocked expression. I can tell that she was not prepared for this. The boy, on the other hand, seems all too eager to step up. Odd for District Five, but I will commend him for doing what he must see to be some sort of duty. His demeanor is a little arrogant for my tastes, but maybe we will get along.
The rest of the Reapings pass in a blur, and all I can take in is who is confident, who cries, and who seems all too rebellious for my comfort. There are far more volunteers than I would have thought, and so many of them seem confident. It is a tough year to survive.
But at least if I die, I die doing my duty and serving the state, in a way.
When the Reapings are over and the woman on TV has stopped blabbering away, I go and take a shower, pick out a crisp white suit almost exactly like my Reaping attire, and pin on my Peacekeeper badge. I may not be one yet, but I am sure that I am allowed to wear the badge my father gave me. I want the others to know what I believe in, what I am fighting for. I do not understand why so many are against the simple notion of peace.
The train stops, and our party offloads into the Capitol. And this city, this city who are my caregivers, the home of my ruler, the place I serve - this city is far more beautiful than I could have imagined. I am not an emotional person, but the size and scale of it make me pause, for a moment, to take in the colours of the fashion and the decoration and the billboards, and the smell, as though the streets had been doused in perfume, but sweeter and far less pungent than the floral alcohol my mother drenched herself in.
Then I regained my composure, and we made our way into what was to be our new home for the next few days.
But I could not help but wish, as fools and dying men do, for more time.
It is the day of the Reaping. For me, the Reaping is different from how it is for others - it is a time of neither excitement nor fear. Living in District Two, I know that I will not be picked unwillingly - and not having the ambitions of a Career, I know that I will not be selected willingly either. No, today I will do little more than stand among the throng of breathless citizens and keep watch. Even in a satisfied District like Two, Reaping day often puts seeds of rebellion in people’s minds.
I am wearing a crisp white suit, and hold my Peacekeeper’s badge inhand, a tazer in my pocket in case there is a rabble I must help appease. Mother tells me that I look very handsome, and looks as though she is about to try and plant one of her kisses on me, but I hold her gaze and she stops mid-swoop. I have more important things to think about. I must prove, to all the Peacekeepers and citizens of the Capitol at the ceremony, that I am a worthy servant and soldier. There is no time for mother’s games.
The square is bustling, full of people chatting about who will Volunteer this year I have not heard of the girl, but the boy’s name makes my shoulders stiffen. Nero Tuff. Nero is a classmate of mine in the field of academia, although he attends the Career academy for most lessons. He is, apparently, very handsome, and even my mother has been seen sidling up to him from time to time. He is also strong, vicious and beloved, too, but that is not what stops me in my tracks. What many people do not know that I know, is that Nero Tuff is the son of a rebel, Kryspyn Tuff.
A rebel, who disrespected the Capitol, who plotted against the state, against the reason that I am alive.
A rebel, who was put to death, as was right.
My eyes move over to this Nero. I have never liked the boy. He talks and giggles and flirts his way through class when he ought to be listening to the teacher. Often he drinks and he and his mates rush through the town and sing and break windows like absolute fools. Nero Tuff has the mannerisms of a rebel. Nero Tuff is the son of a rebel.
A rebel cannot represent our District in the Hunger Games. We must show the Capitol that Two are a good people, a dutiful people, a lawful people.
We assemble into rank, and I make sure to place myself beside Nero. I watch the video fully, as always - it is a reminder to us of what we must be grateful for and what we must be ashamed of. It was rebels who put us into the Dark Days, and the Capitol who have pulled us out. I do not know how anybody can ignore this.
Then the girl is chosen. I do not know her personally. I think that she is probably what others would call beautiful, but that is not the thing about her that sticks in my mind. Once again, it is her surname. Taveri. This is a famous name, but for other reasons, more honourable reasons than Tuff. The Taveris have had many Victors, and the parents, I know, run a very successful training centre. This girl is someone I can respect. But my eyes cannot linger on her for long, because they are about to call the boy, and Nero Tuff of all people is about to Volunteer.
“And now, how about a gentleman to join us up here?” The black-haired Escort hovers his hand above the Reaping bowl, and my own hovers in my pocket. Beside me, Nero takes in a deep breath, tensed and ready, smiling.
I do not hear the name of the boy who was Reaped. I was too fast on the draw, the result of all my father’s reflex training, and before the first syllable of the phrase “I volunteer!” has left Nero’s mouth my tazer is on his arm. It’s not set very high, barely hurts him, but it’s enough to snatch the words from his mouth. Everybody is staring now, confused.
“I volunteer as tribute.” I state, and slide the tazer back into my pocket, knowing that it will be taken from me shortly. As I step towards the stage, Nero lunges at me, but several Peacekeepers hold him back. For a second, as I look out onto the faces of everybody in the crowd, I almost feel the reaction that so many tributes feel - sadness. The Peacekeepers at the back stand steadfast, and remind me what I could have had, if I had waited, if I had let Nero go.
But if I cannot serve the Capitol as a Peacekeeper, I can certainly serve it now.
Timothy "Iago" Long ♠ District Two Escort ♠ 35 ♠ Rob James-Collier
Timothy always maintained (and still does to this day) that his name was the start of his problems. As a name, Timothy isn’t bad, exactly, but it sounds light, fluffy, friendly - the exact image of what the boy himself wanted to be seen as. What made it even worse was the strong lisp that no matter how hard he tried or how many videos and books he studied, remained there to torment him. Bullying was inevitable, particularly in the Capitol, and although the quick-witted and sharp-tongued boy was always armed with a witty and biting comeback, his speech impediment seemed to blunt the effect almost completely. It wasn’t as though he’d started off particularly well, and he had been stubborn even as a child, but apart from his small group of friends, Timothy was alone for most of his teenage years, the kind of angsty teen who plays music too loudly because they think it’s cool and swears at strangers for simple mistakes.
As a young adult, he managed to make a few more friends, despite all odds. However, this seemed to make him worse rather than better, as the coarseness and immaturity that hadn’t had a chance to come out when he was alone floated to the surface and began to bloom. A lot of people hated him because he was rude and insensitive, but a lot of others loved to be around him because, in his own harsh way, he was funny. For once in his life, Timothy’s coarse misanthropy was bringing him love rather than hate and he relished in it, taking every opportunity to become yet more insufferable to impress his newfound friends - many of them far richer and more powerful than him, and therefore useful allies.
Timothy was not a celebrity at first - at least, not in the field of entertainment. Using his connections and his good but no-nonsense speaking skills, Timothy managed to start up a small business: a line of male grooming products called Iago. It took years of haggling, lying, and hard work, but eventually Iago became a major brand being displayed in many high-class shops, and worn by high-profile men. From there, he branched off into putting some of his money in a new branch of men’s salons, paid for speech therapy to rid him of his lisp, and soon the immature and annoying teenager from years ago was gone.
Well, not exactly. You’d think that business work would change a person, but Timothy was just smug about how easy he thought it was to become successful. In fact, the immature and annoying boy had become an even more immature and annoying man, only this time he had a large house and a success story to back up his brashness. He was so slick that he was oily, so quick with an insult that he was punchable, and so talkative that he was overpowering. There were still easily pinpointed weak spots and insecurities, but all in all, the man was insufferable to hold a conversation with for more than five minutes. And yet, when he went on national television for interviews about his products, he became an instant success, simply because he was funny. It didn’t matter whether you were laughing with his clever quips, or at his absolute arrogance - Timothy Long was born to be on television.
After being invited onto many beloved Capitol shows, Timothy was a real favourite to become an escort. He was well-known both for his successful brand and his television persona - and had also become rather a symbol for his more classical and understated fashion sense in the world of the Capitol birds of Paradise. He accepted the role gladly, eager to find a new way to stretch his fame before he inevitably fell out of the spotlight. Donning a new name so as to be taken seriously, Timothy (or rather, Iago), entered the world of the Hunger Games. Now he has been doing it for six years, and had already been offered the high honour of being the official Escort for District Two.
Iago is not entirely heartless as he would have some believe. While rude, chain-smoking, drunk, loud and sarcastic most of the time, he must admit he sometimes grows damnably attached to those tributes who aren’t irritating little toerags, and if anything happens to his favourites he slips, for a while, back into a lisping and insecure teenager. But he can’t show that face to the public eye, and break his persona. So, to his tributes’ faces, Iago is as crass and arrogant and uncaring as ever, and will only allow himself a reaction once they are safely in the arena and out of his sight.
Valerie Victoria | 32 | 67th Victor| Killed 8 people | Sara Martins
Valerie Victoria was not meant to win the Hunger Games. Born the sole heir of a successful family conglomerate, she had her life paved out before her - she would be trained to take over the business, and, when her parents were too old, she would be the head of the family. The earliest part of Valerie’s life was all about passing the time up until it was her turn to head the business. In fact, preparation for this role consumed most of her childhood, and being moulded into the perfect businesswoman. There were a few problems, though, and rather large ones at that – Valerie, while a perfectly cheerful and charming young child, couldn’t get her head around even the simplest of sums. Even after the numbers had been explained to her time and time again, when she attempted to put them together, they simply slipped from her reach. Unbeknownst both to her and to her family, Valerie suffered from dyscalculia - but she was viewed simply as a failure. You couldn’t run a business if you didn’t understand the numbers. It was time for a change of tack.
This change of tack came in the form of the son of a family friend and partner - Victor, an intelligent but quiet boy with a head for mathematics, a little out of place in District Two. It seemed like it must be fate to join Victor with the Victorias, and both families viewed it as a match that would suit them perfectly. Indeed, even Victor was won over quickly - well-meaning but socially awkward, he had never imagined he would be able to be with someone so beautiful as Valerie. The two were set up to see each other on many occasions and they grew up together, sharing a first date, and then a first kiss. Everybody around them knew that they were perfect. Well, everybody except Valerie. Because while Victor was a kind and gentle and loving boy, and she appreciated him against a backdrop of arrogant and bloodthirsty men, she could never love him. Valerie Victoria had known all her life that she could only ever love another woman.
Still, she suffered in silence, letting his hands slide over her skin and hearing him tell her time and time again how he loved her, and how he wasn’t good enough for her, how he didn’t deserve her. Valerie and Victor were married at sixteen, and their wedding night was something she hopes to put out of her memory even today. But now that the two were married, Valerie realised, she had nothing more to do. Victor would take her place as head of the family. She would not have to run the company, and she had no responsibilities other than to be his wife. So if she wanted to escape that one unpleasant duty - well, she would be hurting nobody but herself.
Secretly, she began to train, using all the time that Victor was away talking of sums to perfect her skills, first with a sword, then with a bow. When she had done this, she sought out others who were training, and challenged them to rounds of one-on-one combat, and found that what she lacked in mathematics, she made up for in lightness of foot and quick-thinking. She registered for the Games at the age of sixteen and was rejected, then again at seventeen and was rejected again, then at the age of eighteen - and her big break came. Valerie Victora was the Volunteer for the 67th annual Hunger Games.
Though she left her parents behind easily as she knew they had ceased caring about her long ago, it was hard to see Victor standing there, alone and broken and betrayed. He had attempted to volunteer and protect her, but his quiet voice was lost among the sea of stronger contenders. He was so small, she thought as she looked over her shoulder and walked to the Justice Building, and for a second she wondered if she could have learned to love him after all. But it was too late for silly thoughts like that. he was behind her, now. All she had to do was win, and she could choose her own life, a Victor finally free from Victor. And if she failed, and she died - well, she hoped Victor and his parents would be happy.
Being a beautiful and relatively likable girl, Valerie suffered no real knocks during parade, training or interviews. She befriended the other Careers, but was kind to those from other Districts too, both out of natural amiability and knowing that allies would certainly come in helpful. In Private Training, Valerie scored a Nine, not the highest score for the Careers that year, but not the lowest either. She was a safe bet but not the obvious frontrunner, and she was perfectly happy with that. That the betters said didn’t really matter. It was only the arena that counted.
Valerie’s arena was a barren desert, short of materials and almost devoid of hiding places, with one lone small watering hole in the centre, and an area of rocks in the far East. The girl stuck with the Career pack, one of whom had died in the Bloodbath, and managed to pick up a bow and sheath of arrows, a sword, food, a first aid kit, and two bottles of something she almost drank before realising it was poison. Many tributes were killed on the first day. In fact, in such a tough arena where sneaking and evading opposition was nearly impossible once all hiding spots had been claimed, tributes were falling left and right, and though the Careers were well-fed and well equipped, the fierce sun was leaving them seriously short of water. That is, until they found the little oasis at the centre of the arena. There they made camp, and rather than hunting out others decided that it was wisest to guard it and wait for parched tributes to come running to them. Soon enough there were only ten people left, seven of them Careers, and the growing realisation that the alliance could turn on each other at any moment made conversation tense. The District One male attempted to murder his partner while he was on guard duty, but Valerie woke up and drove her sword through his chest, promising the others that she would stay with them until the very end.
But the next night she awoke to find the male from Four standing above her with raised dagger, and though her partner killed him before he could kill her, she was shaken. Now there were just five Careers, and only two other tributes. Valerie knew that the next time any of them slept, they would be unlikely to wake up. What she also knew, however, was that if she turned on any one of them now, the rest could kill her in an instant. All that she could do was somehow will them without anybody realising it was her... and then it dawned on her. While the others were eating, Valerie went to the small lake to get water, and after drinking as much as she could take, she uncorked the two bottles of clear but deadly liquid and poured them into the one remaining water source. From now on it was a game of waiting, for although she had destroyed her only source of water, she was the only person who knew that it was contaminated. When the Careers had all finished their meal, a rather salty meal from the District Four female’s sponsor, Valerie’s partner offered to go and get them all water from the lake - apart from Valerie, who he knew had just been for a drink. The atmosphere was unusually merry - everybody was well-fed and, for now, healthy, so they talked and laughed and shared water around freely.
And within half an hour, each one of them had spat blood and fallen, cold, to the floor. Now Valerie was alone, and she gathered up all her fallen allies’ supplies and made for a spot behind the rocks, hoping that once the Careers’ bodies had been taken away, a thirsty tribute would assume that the pack had just moved, and fall for her trap. Which they did. There was no final battle, no big conclusion. Just a mediocre thud, and then nothing. It was not the most exciting of finales. Still, the viewers couldn’t help but applaud the cleverness and the tactics which she had used to play the game, despite poisoning after poisoning after poisoning growing tiresome. Once more, while a good victor, she was far from the greatest. A symbol of clever tactics rather than mindless brutality in the eyes of some, a disappointment in the eyes of many others.
But Valerie didn’t care. Though she was often overcome with guilt for those she had murdered, and though their deaths played themselves over and over in her mind, she couldn’t help but rejoice, because she was free. A winner of the Hunger Games had faced far greater hardships than telling her husband that she was sorry but she was not in love with him, and after he had seen her kill so many, Victor had fallen out of love with her as well. He still ran her business and acted like her parents’ real son, and Valerie was free to move to the Victor’s Village. She fell in love with another young female victor, and the two were married. Valerie’s life was how she had always wanted it to be, and she was even managing to leave the Games behind her.
That is, until she was asked by the Capitol to be a mentor for the 82nd Hunger Games. Though she initially turned it down, her wife begged her to take the opportunity, and she began to see the positives of the circumstance. After all, with the guilt she felt for taking so many lives, how could she pass up the opportunity to save one?
“Our nation would be nothing without District 2’s superb stonework. It builds and fortifies our cities and its citizens are known individually for their strength.”
I have not had my first kiss. A Peacekeeper is not allowed a family until they have served twenty years of good service for the Capitol, and I have little interest in romance besides. I suppose if I were to be entirely honest, my first kiss would be my mother, when I was a baby. She only ever used to kiss me in public. Now she does not kiss me at all.
1. Tell us about your family.
I have little respect for my mother - although, her being my superior in most respects, I am aware that I should. Usually I do not allow personal taste to overwhelm my respect for the correct order of things, but this is a rare exception. My mother, who is supposedly a socialite, opposes all my ideals of honest and of loyalty. I cannot abide that. At the endless parties in our house with flickering lights and pyramids of champagne glasses, my mother flits and flirts about, feigning interest in people she does not care about, making men fall over themselves for her. I would never make such a fool of myself in public as that. I will never act an idiot for love.
My father apparently does not mind this. He says that mother does it for the money and gifts she is given by the rich and foolish men. He also said that I should never speak about her like that again, and so I have not. But I cannot help my thoughts, and if I think something about a person they have a right to know. When I was thirteen, I confronted her about her lying. She responded by patting my head with a laugh and trilling in a thin voice that she was merely an ‘actress’. I can see no difference. Acting and lying are both based on mistruth and fiction and pretending. They are synonymous.
My father is a man I must respect, though. Respect and revere and fear, at least a little. Fear is a rare emotion for me, but it would be rarer indeed to remain steadfast when he was glaring at you. I do not understand terms like ‘staring daggers’, but in this case I must say it fits. He works me hard, and has all my life. I may be a pawn and a servant of the Capitol, but I am flesh and blood and bone like any other, and yet he never had any qualms about training me with the whip and clubs and wrestling until my hands were bloodied and my throat raw. I must thank him for it now, though. It was my father’s training that rid me of the blight that is being workshy.
29. Which House of Hogwarts would the Sorting Hat place you in?
ooc: At first glance, the obvious choice would be Gryffindor, for his strength - but if looked at in more detail, Ramus bears many of the textbook characteristics of a Hufflepuff: Dedication; Hard Work; Fair play; Unafraid of Toil; Loyalty. This would, more likely than not, be his House.
Ramus Cobb ◆ District 2 ◆ 18 years old ◆ FC: Adonis Bosso ◆ Follow
Ramus is dutiful, follower, honest, stoic, and lawful.
Weapon of choice: Whip, baton and taser.
Even when raised to be metaphorically beaten over the head with propaganda, the hero of any story will form his own enlightened opinions and campaign for the greater good. Ramus Cobb, however, was no hero. Born to an ex-Peacekeeper who had served his 20 years and a rich socialite who considered herself blessed by the benevolent outreach of the Capitol, Ramus was taught from a very young age that everything good that he had had been given to him by the President, and that the only way to live his life was to give back to the State as much as he could. That’s why despite his physical prowess, Ramus never joined a Career academy, preferring instead to take extracurricular lessons from his father at home. Ramus was not an individual warrior. He had always been a soldier, a blind follower, a Peacekeeper since before he could walk.
