An hour before his disappearance, he had been fine. A little nervous, perhaps, seeing as his friends had headed along a little faster on the hiking trail and he was quickly trailing behind.
The forest never bothered him thankfully. He rather enjoyed hiking and he was pretty experienced at this point, could probably even get them back on the trail if they managed to get horribly lost. He mostly hoped no one walked into poison oak or something. Or that this fog didn't make anyone stumble and break a leg— he frowns at the thought. He had checked the weather a couple of times before they left. The forecast had been promising and yet the second they started their descent, a dreary fog rolled in, blocking out the sun and making everything hazy and white around them.
Fourty-five minutes before his disappearance, he realized his friends had indeed misstepped and walked away from the path. It's nothing life-threatening, Victor is still able to hear his buddies ahead of him, chattering away. "Hey guys, we're actually off the, um, trail? No biggie, but like...bears, y'know?" It gets a laugh out of them and reassurance they'll eventually get back on track— Melanie just saw a cool mushroom and wanted to check it out.
When they showed him their finding, he was rather impressed: it was a bright, peachy sort of color with all these delicate spires that ended in bulbous tips. He hadn't seen anything like it in real life before, but then again, he's not the mushroom expert. Melanie was probably the closest thing they had to an expert and even she was stumped, spitting out a few names but still indecisive on which one it was.
Victor just watched her think, quietly admiring how her nose scrunched up when she thought too hard.
Thirty minutes before his possession, they're getting farther away from the trail, but he deems it alright seeing as there was a rather obvious trail for them to follow back to safety. The mushroom patches were more frequent in this area and stood out like safety cones in the fog. Some of his friends were taking pictures, murmuring amongst themselves about how maybe they'd discovered some new species.
Victor doubts it but he'd never want to ruin their fun. He just thinks it's unlikely— scouts and rangers have probably been through here at least a hundred times. Surely, they've seen it all.
Fifteen minutes before his possession and he's having trouble breathing. The fog is thick, almost granular in the air at this point. He can barely see more than a few inches from his face. Victor knows he should be more concerned about the current situation and the risk of hyperventilating— but his breathing seems to have slowed, making quick, panicked actions near impossible. It was comforting, he thinks, to be this level of calm while you're essentially suffocating to death.
His friends were still talking somewhere in the sea of white, in more hushed tones now. Less like voices, more like hums really. Muffled.
Ten minutes before his ascension, Melanie's legs have fused together and curled inward like a fern.
Victor doesn't know what he's looking at. In the thick fog that made his breathing shallow and his body weak, he had managed to follow his friends' muffled whimpers to what looked like something that had been left in the fridge too long and congealed.
It was massive, the top of it shrouded in more mist, making its actual size unknown to him. Whatever it was, it had attached itself to a tall tree in the middle of a clearing, overtaking its form and using it as a crutch to keep itself upright. The mushrooms were in the hundreds now, covering the ground and replacing the grass.
Victor used the spires as leverage to keep himself crawling forward— its all he could do, what with how lethargic he was becoming. His brain just kept repeating over and over again, keep going. Keep moving. Don't stop.
He sobs softly at seeing Melanie's contorted face stuck in the mass. Jared's tattooed arm was poking out with every bone in his finger broken from trying to crawl out. They couldn't have been attached to the thing for more than a few minutes and yet they looked like they had been there for a hundred years, their limbs coated in a thin pink sheen, their bodies twisted into a shape of the creature's own creation.
Five minutes before his ascension, Victor is groaning, silently begging for relief, for air, for death— whatever would make it stop. His vision had turned cloudy as the fog seemed to invade, leaving him even more blind to the world around him. Whatever it was, it had taken his friends. And it had taken him.
He felt it first in his nostrils, a slight tickle as the peach tendrils on the ground poked and prodded at his shivering form. Victor could only breathe through his mouth weakly now and even then he could not have that; they pressed into his nose, making him choke and gag, panic rising in his mind but his body helpless to react.
It feels like it's in his brain, how deep it went. He once saw in a documentary how the Ancient Egyptians used a red hot poker to jam into a corpse's nasal cavity, swirling up their brains and pulling them out— that was what it felt like. Invasive. Violent. Heat spreads to his skull and makes Victor cry and wheeze and beg an unhearing assailant to stop.
And then it did stop.
In a matter of seconds actually.
The fog rolls out. The tendrils stick to their place on the ground instead of his nose. The initial pain is still there, nose bleeding a little from the implantation. For a few quiet, still moments Victor breathes fresh air, staring at the pink mass that never moved or spoke or indicated that it was even sentient.
Run. He's aware that his limbs are moving on their own. They hadn't been working a moment ago and now he was fumbling through the patch of mushrooms back to the life he knew before this.
Faster. Speed picks up, Victor's weakened mind chalking it down to finally being able to feel the effects of the adrenaline rush that was always threatening to overtake him. He can almost feel it, his mind muddled and hazy but his body moving so swiftly, acting on instinct alone.
Sneakers stomp down moss and grass as he races through the woods, eyes wide and stinging from the lack of blinking and cool air that whips past his face. He does indeed follow the mushroom patch back to it and he curses himself for letting them leave the path— it felt like no time had passed since he started running to when he found it again— they had been so close.
The wind finally wins and tears start streaming down his cheeks, mingling with the blood leaking from his nose still. He coughs from the exertion and can feel something coming up— it was blood but he didn't know that yet, the rush making him more focused on not slipping on a rock and not on the blood starting to seep from his mouth.
One minute before his ascension, Victor has run all the way down to the end of the trail, looking down the ledge to see the campsite below, filled with people who could help him—
"Ack!" He's choking again, being brought to his knees as he violently coughs. Something's in me, he thinks as something stretches his esophagus open, something that wasn't meant to be there. Something's in me, he thinks as more blood is spat out. Something's in me, he thinks as his heart comes out as a mangled clot from his lips.
Even as Victor stares at it, this unassuming, bloody pulp that sits between his hands, he finally ascends.
Victor is no longer with us.
And a fungus blooms in his empty chest cavity.
Hometown: Portland, Oregon, USA
Birth Date: January 18, 1992
Orientation: Unknown
Height: 5'9"
Wednesday Mason || District 2 || 33 || Victor of the 24th || Jasmine Sanders
Weapon of Choice: Bare handed combat and bow and arrow
Private Training Score: 9
Number of Kills: 6 (D3 male, D4 male, D4 female, D5 male, D7 male, D8 male)
Arena: Capitol Mall
Wednesday has been described as Ambitious, Tenacious, Cultured; Bitter, Manipulative, and Blunt
Like her parents, Wednesday grew up with a bit of a thrill living life differently. At a young age she developed the uncanny ability to predict things, to read people’s intentions and to sense when there is more happening than is apparent. Wednesday never had to try too hard in manipulating people, succeeding in getting others to do her dirty work. Planning in advance what she wanted to do – visualize it, act on it, and make it a reality is just a little game to her. Being so well versed in the actions at she turned it into a private sport, like a macabre chess.
Margo and Brutus Mason raised the budding psych kid. Both of which never had a clue as to what laid behind the cold gaze that looked back. For them, Wednesday was just another beautiful girl who wanted nothing more then to bring pride to the District. Her emotions did, and still do, hide underneath the surface, but are evident in her actions. Before her time in the Games, she rarely surfaced anything other than bitter. It used to freak the other kids out when she actually mustered a smile or compliment.
The only true thing Wednesday loved more than playing master manipulator was getting her hands dirty in the Academy, pretty much allowing her to get away with as much brutality without signaling any alarms. A year before volunteering she began practicing long ranged weaponry, and hand-to-hand combat. Like a bat out of hell, she surpassed her peers and became a tour de force combatant. Wednesday believed in the glory in combat.
On her Reaping Day, Wednesday volunteered as rehearsed along with another fellow Academy kid named Rueben. The two hit it off instantly. Their chemistry was a fine accessory going into the Games, but somewhere along the way her partner’s mind got lost in the fame. Although she was hurt by his sudden change of heart, she never showed it. Wednesday grew more distant as days grew and by time private training rolled around, he and everyone else was nothing more than a cannon fodder in her eyes. Instead of wasting her time on a lost cause, she impressed the Game Makers by quite literally beating the shit out of the available trainers. An impressive score of 9 was given, sealing her status of a Career worthy opponent. If the other kids weren’t scared of her yet, they were now.
On the 60-second countdown the cameras revealed the arena to be a replica of the great Capitol Mall. Before she knew it, the count was over, compelling her to go in for her first kill, the D5 male. After playing hopscotch on his esophagus, she joined her fellow tributes inside the true to size arena mall. It quickly proved to be anything but an average arena, filled with store mutts, and all kinds of pop culture references and gags. She barely had time to settle in before bumping into the D4 male whose name still escaped her. His jaw was unhinged by Wednesday within five minutes, completing her kill by shoving a persimmon down his throat. She watched as the poor kid choked on his own vomit. His cannon fired not long after leaving her with 2 kills on the first day.
The rest of her time wasn’t as easy as the first. After nearly loosing her head with a Chef Boyardee mutt, Wednesday encountered the D4 Female with the D7 Male thirsty for her blood. She pummeled them into submission with great effort, and took a selfie with their corpses; sadistic, but very necessary to appeal sponsorship. After her combo kill, Wednesday needed a break from the madness, venturing to the outskirts of the mall where a carnival was being held. She received a bow and arrow as a reward for her bravery by the Game Makers. The reward was short lived because just a few hours later the Game Makers forced interaction between the tributes. Wednesday was obligated into battle once again, this time with the boy from eight. He didn’t appear to be a fighter so Wednesday underestimated him; her mistake. This particular boy gave Wednesday a real fight for her life. She barely escaped the bunker they duked it out in, gaining many life-threatening injuries after his attack. The majority of her backside sustained 3rd degree burns as she went into the final 3, hanging on by sheer determination.
In the season finale of her Games, just 2 remaining tributes were left alongside Wednesday, and she was by far the most injured. She stayed calm and rested as the other two dueled it out on the sky-high floating island above the mall. The boy from three killed his district partner, leaving just Winnie and him. They fought for what seemed like hours, destroying both of their anatomies in the process. Wednesday’s intestines were beginning to spill out and the boy known as Naxos was shutting down due to exhaustion. Wednesday refused to face death, flat out desperate. She hastily hoisted up her sword after pinning him down with her own body, turning the blade deep into her just so it would go through his chest. The tip of the blade punctured his heart after exiting the stomach of hers. Wednesday practically screamed the remaining air out of her lungs as the announcer declared her the winner.
It’s been sixteen years since Wednesday’s wrath and not a day goes by where she isn’t seen in the public eye. A few years after her Games an infamous reality show producer contacted her due to the unique way she was unapologetically blunt. Within the first season her reality show became one of the most watched programs in all of the Capitol, right alongside the Games itself. Wednesday’s Thursday was a weekly episodic adventure where audiences followed her private life every single Thursday, leaving almost nothing to the imagination. From the time she hooked up with another victor, to other times where she drunkenly vandalized her own home, an audience was always watching. Now well into her 9th season, Wednesday ups the ante every year. This particular year she chose to mentor and highlight the new batch of District Two tributes, giving the Capitol an up close look as to what goes on behind closed doors.
Despite outward appearances, Wednesday forbids to be alone. For years she secretly and obsessively held on to anyone who showed affection. Boyfriends, friends, even the crew behind her show, were all kept like little trophies just so she wouldn’t be alone. Feeling and emotions were not discussed without anger, but as long as she receives some attention and kept distracted, Wednesday will continue to remain at peace.
Tilda Marek || District 4 || 24 || Victor of the 31st || FC: Lily James
Weapon of Choice: Traps
Private Training Score: 5
Number of Kills: 3 (District 8 male, District 11 female, District 2 female)
Arena: Tropical Islands
Tilda has been described as Observant, Polite, Intelligent; Introverted, Withdrawn, Anxious
When Tilda’s mother was sixteen, she gave birth to a baby girl out of wedlock. Her parents, part of the oldest and wealthiest families in the district, cast her out, leaving her with her baby in poverty on the streets of District Four. And though Tilda grew up fairly poor on the outskirts of the district, her mother tried in every respect to give her as many opportunities as she could, especially when it came to education. This meant that, when Tilda turned twelve, her mother dragged her quiet daughter apprehensively to the District Four Training Academy. It was never expected that Tilda would become the tribute; she was one of the quieter and physically weaker girls of her year and was never particularly proficient with weapons. The only advantage she seemed to have was being one of the smarter members of the Academy, but even still she flew very much “under the radar” and spent her time learning survival skills as opposed to weaponry.
When she was reaped at fifteen there were no worries circulating the district. The girl who was assigned to be reaped was a popular choice and there seemed to be a general consensus that Four could produce a winner from such a fierce competitor. But when nobody stepped forward after the call came out for volunteers (it was later discovered she had been bitten by a poisonous snake the night before and was minutes from death during the moments the District was looking for her), Tilda was left standing up there with a scary-looking eighteen-year-old boy to go off to the Capitol.
Tilda stayed out of the spotlight throughout the entire week before the Games. Her private training score was even less than average, and her district prepared for its first bloodbath death in years. Her social anxiety made her interview more uncomfortable than anything, and by the time the Games rolled around most people had simply forgotten about her. Few people noticed when she slipped through the bloodbath with an abnormally large amount of supplies. Even the cameras had a difficult time finding her in the small outcropping of tropical islands that made up that year’s arena. When they finally found her in a makeshift hut on the furthest beach of the arena, she had already caught enough small animals and fish to last her comfortably for a week. She had set out multiple traps around her campsite to keep her safe, and received her first kill almost on accident when one of her traps snared the boy from District Eight. The traps were only meant to keep people in place while she made an escape, but the Gamemakers were not content with her staying in one place and sent a tsunami her way to wreak havok. She escaped fairly unscathed while the boy she had trapped was left to drown.
Tilda got lucky a second time, when another trap snared the girl from District Eleven, who had been hunting her down for several hours. The girl was lifted into the air by several ropes, and with some strategic slicing of strings here and there, Tilda managed to maneuver her into strangulation. Once the final four was reached, one by one, the islands of the arena became flooded, and two of the remaining tributes were left to drown as they were not able to swim. The only two that were- Tilda and the girl from Two- were left on a single central island to fight to the death.
The other girl was in poor health at this point, but also received many, many sponsor gifts to give her an advantage during the final battle. Tilda received none, as extremely few people expected her to win. However, by outrunning, outmaneuvering, and exhausting the other girl in a fast-paced chase around the island, Tilda gained the upper hand when she climbed a tree near the beach. A well-placed throw of an unripe coconut gave the girl a nauseating concussion, and in her confusion she became slow and clumsy enough for Tilda to grab the sword from her hand and shove it through her neck.
Tilda is probably one of the more unpopular victors to date. Because so few people had bet on her to win, many Capitolites are still mad at her nine years later for losing them enormous amounts of money. So instead of spending much time showing face in the Capitol, Tilda devotes her energy to bringing Capitol technology and goods to those who are less fortunate. As one might imagine, this makes her even less popular among the officials and the government. She spends most of her time alone, though, drowning the PTSD with quiet alcoholism. Tilda spends more time with books and red wine than with people, so even many in her district are unfamiliar with one of their most recent victors.
Annika Sawyer || District 9 || 19 || Victor of the 39th || FC: Malaika Firth
Weapon of Choice: Lightweight Scythe, Sickle
Private Training Score: 10
Number of Kills: 5 (D10 female, D6 male, D12 male, D8 female, D2 female)
Arena: Flooding Cavern
Annika has been described as Quarrelsome, Misguided, Dependent; Exuberant, Humorous and Obstinate
For much of her life, Annika Sawyer couldn’t complain. Her world was small and simple and the vastness of District 9’s fertile wheat fields only attested to that. There was a house just sturdy enough to live in and she called it home. There was electricity that worked most of the time and if it didn’t, it was a perfect excuse to start a fire in the fireplace. A greenhouse in the backyard provided a usually dependable source of seasonal vegetables for selling and eating. Everything that could serve the purpose of day to day living was there. But most importantly, there was her mother.
In her younger years, Kayin Sawyer didn’t care for life and certainly did not care for the little that was that given to her. She didn’t care to find meaning or love or satisfaction, because those things did not exist. She didn’t care for justice or fairness or equality because those things could not be achieved. Any one who spoke about things like that were in a deep mess of denial. The world didn’t cater to such naive desires and it wouldn’t make an exception to likes of Kayin. It was this image of life that kept Kayin content with what little she had. A small, single room house with its leaky roof and no family to call her own. Later in life she would often wonder how it was that she ever ended up pregnant. Children were just things meant to fuel fear and submission, little pawns for the Hunger Games. But she married and gave birth, surrounded by the father’s family, their things, and their desires and their happiness. The thing wailed and fussed and Kayin couldn’t help but laugh through her pain. “Listen here, little mama.” She took the bundle from the arms of the nervous father who sat beside her. “If you do it right… you ain’t gonna have nothing to cry or fuss about.” She looked at pale brown color of her baby’s skin and she realized that she couldn’t wait until the day that skin held as much intensity as her own.
“You still afraid of staying, now, Kayin?” The man asked as she shushed the baby. Kayin looked to her baby’s grandfather and aunt.
“I’m not afraid of staying.” she said. “It’s integrity.. I just need integrity.”
It was always Annika and her mother. As a child, Annika never questioned why her father was not around or who her father was. She didn’t need to. Her mom taught her to seek nothing more than what was necessary and to want nothing more than what was necessary. “This way, you’ll always feel content. And they’ll have nothin’ to hold against you.”
She grew into what her mother intended. Reserved, quiet, elusive, a small thing. But they both knew better. Annika was not numb to her surroundings and she certainly was not unaware like her appearance made her out to be. She didn’t believe in the same cold understanding of life as her mother. She was ambitious, though her mother would call it greed; she was intelligent, but her mother would call it egotistic. Annika would only act against her mother’s wishes when it was necessary. A sudden elevation of her voice, a string of sentences that possibly could not have come from her mouth, heavens no. Or her personal favorite, deliberately phrasing her words to imply double meanings. And if an enlightened individual saw past Annika’s domicile disposition, no one would believe otherwise.
She took a job early. At the age of ten she worked twice a week bundling wheat stalks for transportation. When she was older, she worked the wheat fields three times a week, using a scythe to harvest fifteen square yards of wheat in by nightfall. The man of the field objected to a young girl of herself working the labor.. She simply responded with a delicate smile, “Well, sir, what are you afraid of? That I’d hurt myself? No, I couldn’t do that. I care too much about my body. That I’d hurt you? Well that is a possibility. I won’t judge you for that fear.” Six out of the seven days of her week she went to school. She kept to herself because it would make her mother happy. She had friends that loved her and her peculiar sense of humor dearly, but she kept that part of herself hidden from her mom.
In the year leading up to Annika’s 18th’s birthday, her mother grew sick. It came in waves, every cycle worse than the last. The local doctor could do nothing or provide no explanation. It was then that Annika’s experienced difficulty in keeping up her facade. She began to miss school.. She left every morning with the intent to take her seat but always ended up taking a turn toward the quiet part of the district. It was on a day that she should have been in school when she met him. She sat under the deteriorating patio of an abandoned house, the sky grey with a sorry attempt at a thunderstorm. He had seen her there before, sat on the stairs, her expression empty. When he finally talked to her she answered his questions vaguely with a threatening tone that ill-fitted the polite and respectful things she was saying.
“What’s your name,” He said, an unlit roll of something held between his lips. She didn’t answer. But she looked at him, tracing the features of his face, sizing him up before looking away again.
“Alright.” He said. “Well I’m Lucas.”
“…Lucas what,” she said finally.
“Just Lucas,” he shrugged. “And yours? Nothing? Alright. Then I’m gonna call you Doe. Jane Doe. Cause you apparently got no name but you got those eyes. They just…” She looked up at him at that moment and his words fell apart.
She found his chuckle irritating. She found his presumptuous questioning of her life disgusting. She thought it was infuriating how easily he figured her dilemma from what little she said. On his way out he gave her what cash he had in his wallet and left. She opened her mouth to apologize for her attitude, but he was long gone. She sat alone with herself and agreed to formally apologize the next time she saw him.
Weeks later, bruises all over her body, faint, light heated, unable to breath and in pain, Kayin stopped working and Annika grew desperate. Lucas had always mentioned he knew a way to make money - a way to help Annika’s mother. She first turned to him for connections, people to talk to who needed work done. Over time she turned to him for comfort when her mother was in too much pain to think straight. There was a brief period in which she seemed to be getting better. She could move, even get out of bed, but her bruises were not healing. It was during this time with a brighter outlook that Annika found a friend in Lucas. He began opening up to her about his life, began staying over to help Annika care for her mom. This period was fleeting, however, as Annika’s mom fell suddenly fell unconscious two weeks later.
By the time the annual Hunger Games season approached, Annika had no more fear left to feel. She had a list of sins in her name, a lifetime debt to Lucas, and enough money saved to pay for medication. Three nights before the reaping, Annika told her mother the good news.
“I got enough to take a train to the hospital and get a doctor. It’s not safe to move you. Lucas said I’ma have to pay the man for his visit and the meds but we got more than enough. Just wait, alright. I’ll leave early tomorrow morning and I’ll be here by sunrise. I’ll tell Lucas to stay with you, he won’t mind. Really I should go now - I’m sure there’s a train lea-”
“No.” Her voice was stern, absent of all the weakness she had accumulated over the past months. It was as if she saved whatever energy she could spare throughout all this time to speak the words she meant to say. “Annika. I’m exhausted. You stay here with me.”
“-but”
“No. I don’t wanna do this anymore. Stop leaving. Stay with me. You don’t have a choice - I’m not giving you one.” Annika opened her mouth to fight and justify all that she did and give meaning to her mother’s life but she should have known from the beginning: Her mother, despite all her attempts to prove otherwise, was selfish, and so was she. Two nights before the reaping, Annika laid in bed with her mother, telling her stories about the man she had made a friend out of, the man she had helped out of dark times. And when morning rose, her mother’s body was cold and stiff and empty.
Annika didn’t move. She noticed, for the first time, how thin and sickly her mother looked. It seemed that when her mom died, she took every drop of power and conviction her body seemed to hold.. Eyes closed, her mother looked at peace. Annika rested chin on her mother’s chest and stared up at the face.
There was a frantic knocking at the door. “Annika?” called Lucas. She didn’t move. He’d let himself in eventually. “Annika, hurry up!” There was no answer. “Annika, swear to god, girl, if you’re in there..” She heard the sound of the door knob being violated, followed by the door shutting. Lucas immediately began shutting the blinds and turning off the lights. “Annika’s you have to go. I’ll stay with your mom.”
“She’s dead.”
“What?” He went over the bed where she lay and looked at her. “Annika, when did this happen.”
“I don’t know. A few hours ago.”
He touched her mother’s arm. “No. She’s too stiff for just a few hours. Annika it’s Reaping Day.” He grabbed her by the arm and pulled her up. “Look, I’m sorry she’s gone, but you need to go. The peacekeepers are going door to door. There’s no way I’m los-”
“Stop.” She rested her hand on his arm. “It’s not Reaping day. It’s Friday.”
“Friday was two days ago.” She saw fear in his eyes, the first time she ever did. “Look. I wanna see you when this is over. We have to talk.”
Moments later, peacekeepers entered the home and separated them, forcing Annika toward the square.
The 39th Hunger Games was Annika’s last year of eligibility. In the years prior, Annika’s relationship to the games was filtered by her mother. Kayin showed no fear of losing her daughter to game, offered her no consoling to assure her it was going to be okay. Annika knew being afraid was not something that fit in her mother’s perspective from an early age. She dealt with it the only way she knew how: putting up her facade and acting how her mom would want her to. That year, there was no mother to appease. It was then that Annika realized she never had someone who cared for her existence. Her mother tried to create an idea for a child, something to live out her principles. Amaryllis Vuitton spoke her yearly speech on stage as Annika counted on her fingers the number of hugs she had received from her mother, the number of I-love-yous, the number of times they ever visited any family. She counted the numbers of faces stricken with the fear she was not allowed to feel, the expressions of dread, the numbers of limbs holding on to one another. She ran out of fingers during her first glance. A feeling came over her that could not identify. Turning on her feet, she looked at all of her surroundings.
When she stopped turning, Amaryllis’ hand fluttered over the bowl of names, and impulsively, Annika called out. “No. I-I volunteer. I volunteer.”
She was taken away immediately. The faces of dread and fear transformed to confusion and surprise. Standing before the crowd, Annika learned what she felt and called it empathy. She noticed a man standing many feet ahead the area designated for family. Peacekeepers were on him and trying to pull him back. She covered her mouth, shocked at who she had forgotten.
Inside the Justice Building, all that could be heard were shouting and crying. “I grew up not caring, Lucas. I had no heart because my mom didn’t let me have one! And I saw those faces - those little kids, Lucas. I never been afraid until now! Don’t you get it? If I go, I won’t be hurting anyone!”
“You’re hurting me!” He shouted, tossing her hand away from his face. He clasped his hands behind his neck, no longer hesitating to hold back his tears.
“I’m.. I’m sorry.” She sobbed. “I’m sorry. Then I’ll win. I’ll come back.”
“You.. have no regard… After what I’ve lost. My wife. My kid. And you go and volunteer?”
“… Lucas, I am not your wife, I am not your son, I have nothing to do with your family so-”
She regretted volunteering. After leaving Lucas the way she did, she had to win. Her mentor offered little help at first, being a dismissive and often self-centered person at all the times, but she proved her worth in no time. Annika held no restraints. She let herself be pleasantly intrigued and flustered in the presence of the Career males, enchanted by the looks and skill of the Career males, respectful and awed of the Capitol elites. She did her best know every tribute to have something valuable to say at any moment. She let out her sly sense of humor and arsenal of innuendos and displayed confidence and amusement. She danced often, anywhere she wanted, to the excitement of the cameras. She did it all while imagining that Lucas was right there with her, making those jokes, dancing with her, giving her that attitude. The Capitol paid close attention to the sweet girl who seemed full of life. They coined her the nation’s best friend, an ideal model for young girls in the Capitol.
A parachute awoke Annika on her first night in the arena: Lucas’ silver ring. The note attached read,
Relax: This not a proposal. Not yet, anyway. This is your promise. All is forgiven. Win.
She understood what he meant. If she wore the ring, it was her vow that she’d be coming home. Four out of her five kills were self-defensive. Her last kill, and ultimately the last kill of the game, was not. The river had poured itself completely into the chasm, leaving the field a muddy swamp. Her opponent was the female from two, Mia Wythe, and ideally, the girl who had betrayed her entire alliance. How dismal would it be, Annika thought, for the nation’s best friend to die at the hands of a backstabbing bitch.
“Hey Mia!” Annika said. “I’m the harbinger of death. Get it?” She rolled her eyes and chuckled at her joke as she lifted her scythe and set it on her shoulders. “You know. Grim Reaper?”
Mia faked a laugh and swung her chain whip just as Annika ran, leading her closer to the edge of the chasm. When the moment was right, Annika used her her Scythe to intercept the lash of Mia’s whip. It locked, and Annika swung harshly to the left, causing Mia to loose grasp the handle. The chain wrapped around the the Scythe, hitting Annika in the arm. She unraveled the chain and just as Mia hovered over her. With a lunge, she tackled the career and moments later, Annika held her in a choke hold with the chain. She pulled the chain tighter, and moments later, the final cannon sounded.
After the game, Annika returned to her first home to find her mother’s body gone and an urn sitting on the mantle. The next few weeks would be Annika’s most difficult as she finally has time to internalize her mother’s death, the blood on her hands, and her relationship with Lucas.
A year later, Annika faces complications with maintaining her connection with the man who has become her lifeline. The Capitol demands so much of her. And she has so much to hide.
Belladonna Knight || District 11 || 26 || Victor of the 30th || FC: Lupita Nyong’o
Weapon of Choice: Poisonous Blow Darts
Private Training Score: 6
Number of Kills: 5 (D4 Male, D8 Male, D6 Female, D5 Male, D9 Male)
Arena: Overgrown city
Belladonna has been described as confident, friendly, bubbly; clingy, brash, and superficial
Belladonna Knight was not born the way she acts or lives currently. She was born dirt poor in the slums of District 1 to a single mother. Her father was killed by peacekeepers when he tried to get his pregnant wife fruit. Still, the poor mother worked her hardest for the little girl. She was the only link left from her dead boyfriend, she had to take care of her.
Still, in District 11 their isn’t much of a chance of getting richer, if you’re born poor you’re probably going to die poorer. They often had little to eat and drink, and even suffered starvation and dehydration during the cold winter months. Still the young mother persevered and didn’t let her little daughter die, even when it seemed like the easier option.
The Knight family struck luck when Belladonna’s aunt married a mild-mannered yet far from poor baker. Belladonna was only eight but even she could see the slow changes in the family’s happiness and lifestyle. Her mother spent more time at home instead of at work doing overtime and she had more clothes to wear and more food to eat. They even moved to a small two room cabin near the Bakery. Things were going great.
Yet Belladonna noticed that even with her cute new clothes and a new home that girls would laugh at her. The girls who lived around the markets were often rude and petty, they’d call her the “poor girl” and tell her to “go back to the slums.” They’d notice any tear, patch or rip in her clothes and yell that their “hand-me-downs.” They’d scream that she was ugly and that poor girls like her deserve to live in the trash cans, not around pretty girls like them. Bella thought they were right, that she was ugly and needed to improve. She begged her mother for clothes, especially clothes for the reaping. Every reaping day she wore the prettiest clothes she could find, yet the girls would still hate her.
Even the day she was reaped, her face full of tears and her mouth letting out screams and whimpers, they teased her clothes. They yelled that “The Capitol will surely snub you!”
But they didn’t snub her, they loved her and the sob story of a bullied little girl who wanted to live a life of luxury, luxury that the Capitol could provide for her.
In the arena she stayed hidden in a skyscraper in the destroyed city, waiting for people to either come in or come close enough for her to shoot them with poisoned blow darts. The only fighting she did was with her last opponent, the boy from 4, who stabbed her in the cheek causing Belladonna to run up to a corner, crying for her mother’s help. She whined and cried until the boy trampled her, kicking and emotionally torturing her with his knife for a few moments. Finally Belladonna got the courage to stand up while the boy turned his back to her.
She kicked him off the skyscrapers 10 floors down to his imminent death.
When she won she didn’t just win her life, she won the freedom from those girls teasing. She had all the pretty clothes, a gorgeous house, and a bunch of new friends. She began to attend and even host charity banquets in the Capitol and District 11, helping the people in her district and others while also giving her fame in the Capitol as a humanitarian. That’s what she really wanted, fame. The modeling, the interviews the parties and the magazines. Fame was all she wanted.
Her old bullies begged to be her friend, and she allowed them to be. Not real friends, though, and she knows that more than anybody. Just friends to take pretty pictures with. She doesn’t think she has any real friends outside of the victors circle.
Sometimes she wonders, though. Do they even see her as a friend? Or do they see her as that superficial girl who cares too much about her makeup and clothes while people in her District starve.?
Well, it’s not like she cares, all she needs in life is her momma, the Capitol’s attention, and pretty things. Everything else is useless.
Dior Dupuis || District 12 || 30 || Victor of the 25th || FC: Tasmin Egerton
Weapon of Choice: Voice
Private Training Score: 7
Number of Kills: 3 (D7 male and female, D2 male)
Arena: Shifting Labyrinth
Dior has been described as sincere, captivating, gracious; dramatic, obstinate, and emotional
It all started with a foolish mistake. A desire to feel wanted mixed with pure and animalistic lust resulted in the physical union of man and woman. As a result of this sinful union, yet another mistake in the form of a human being was created. The woman, for the man had abandoned her without a second thought after his gustatory pleasures were satisfied, took hold of the infant and clutched the baby close to her bosom, tears cascading down her cheeks as she openly wept in the back alley. Gazing down at the product of her sin, the woman ran her bony fingers through the infant’s thick, golden curls. The child, now that it had been birthed, was the only thing keeping her to this world. She had nothing and she was nothing, just a tramp looking for love in all of the wrong places. With a racking sob, she stared lovingly at her child as she cried, the woman, barely old enough to be called one, opened her mouth and dubbed her child “Dior.” Just like the name suggested, Dior was golden and, just like gold, was considered to be a priceless treasure by her mother. However, little did the weeping maiden know, just like most priceless treasures, Dior would be stolen from her mother fifteen years later by a thief known as “The Hunger Games”.
The world of District Twelve was not a nice place to live. Of course, being one of twelve Districts essentially enslaved by an overwhelming force known as the Capitol is not the most grand option for living, but, when it comes to District Twelve, grand living doesn’t exist in any way, shape, or form. Unlike most other Districts, which had small pockets of wealth, Twelve consisted of the dead, the dying, and the soon to die. There was a small group of people, merchants, business owners, etc., who were considered “wealthy”, but the fact of the matter was that they, in comparison to other Districts, were still the lower class. It was in the slums, the places where deadbeats resided, that Dior grew up in. It was also in these wretched slums that Dior learned to loathe, with severe intensity, District Twelve in its entirety.
In a tiny shack, barely big enough to hold one person, let alone two, Dior and her mother, Gloria Bradt, “lived”. Gloria, being a single mother, worked herself to death every day to support herself and Dior. She balanced a myriad of jobs and, when Dior was old enough (about ten years old) she forced her to get a job as, basically, a mail girl. She delivered messages, written or verbal, packages, and other menial things that people needed to be delivered throughout the District. She once delivered a message from a wife to her husband, telling him that she was leaving him and not to come looking for her. Another time, she delivered “an important parcel” to the mayor from the local baker. The mayor ended up loving his little box of raspberries.
Due to her job, Dior knew many people and knew her way around the District quite well. During her deliveries, people would sometimes wave at her, others would just give her a nod of their had, and, sometimes, the other kids/teenagers that lived in extreme poverty would taunt her, calling her the rich girl with the golden hair. Many of select families that lived slightly better lives than the vast majority of the District possessed a form of blonde hair, whether it be as dirty as the District itself or pure and golden as, well, Dior. Since a majority of them were blonde, everyone simply started assuming that if someone was blonde, they were rich. It didn’t help the fact that the District Escort was blonde, too, so everyone associated being blonde with the Capitol, as well. For those that didn’t know her, the teasing was only minimal, but for those that lived in the slums and knew her and where she belonged, they teased her mercilessly.
“Oi, blondie? Who’d you have to fuck to get that hair dye?”
“Blondie, blondie! Why don’t you just go off yourself? You don’t belong here…”
“You’ll never amount to anything, bitch. You’re just like us, no matter how hard you try to change that.”
Of course, Dior never dyed her hair, nor had she ever had sex or done anything promiscuous of the sort before. However, the other mean things they said to her, about her, and behind her back, were pretty much true. She hated it in Twelve. She wanted to be more than what District Twelve could provide. She didn’t want to belong in Twelve. Part of the reason why she hated it in Twelve so much was because of her mother. She loved her mother, in fact, she was her closest friend, but many of the slum residents knew of her mother’s shady past. After all, many of the men, were, well… her clients, so to say. They teased Dior because of that, too. They called her mean things like “the prom night dumpster baby” or, Dior’s personal least favorite “daddyless little girl”.
The topic of Dior’s father was a rather sore one in the Bradt household. During the beginning, Dior didn’t really know or care about the absence of her father. However, when she got older and started going to school and noticed that most people had fathers who loved them, hugged them when they were hurt, and cared for them the way a father should, she started wondering where hers was. When she asked her mother, at age 11, where her father was, her mother froze up and, almost as if she had been waiting for this moment for years, answered robotically: “He died in a coal mining accident before you were born.”
As one can imagine, the news was devastating to Dior. The fact that she would never know her father’s embrace, his comforting words, his advice, or even his love sunk in over time. She was bitter, extremely much so, that her mother had not told her this was when she was younger. She was pissed that she would never know her father, and she was also bitter that she, unlike many others, didn’t have one. More than anything, though, Dior’s hatred for District Twelve solidified at that moment. It wasn’t her fault that her father was gone, it wasn’t anybody else’s, not even her mother, it was the coal mines. It was District Twelve.
Dior and her mother, from that point on, fought on an almost regular basis. For some reason, Gloria seemed more on edge than usual, perhaps because of the stress of her jobs, and Dior was on edge because of her hatred for the District as well as her longing for a father. Years past, and, eventually, during a rather dramatic fight involving Dior losing a parcel and Gloria reprimanding her, everything changed. At one point, while tears flooded down her face, Dior accidentally knocked over her mother’s “jewelry box” (if one could even call it that, for the only thing Gloria put in it was a single pair of earrings with two small, fake pearls on them) and the contents of the box spilled out. Out came her mother’s earrings along with a old, wrinkled piece of paper. Dior, confused due to never seeing her mother put anything else in that box other than earrings, stared at the paper curiously. When her mother saw what had happened, she let out a yelp and dove for the paper… but Dior was faster. Snatching it up, she ran quickly opened it and gazed at the face of the man drawn on the page. It was a face she recognized, a face she had seen every year for just about fifteen years: Oswald St. Germaine, District Twelve’s very own Escort.
At first, she was confused, but in the minute long silence that followed when Dior picked up the sketch, everything started to make sense. Why her hair was the color it was, why her mother never wanted to talk about The Hunger Games, why her mother always stared, sometimes with a look of longing, other times with a look of pure disgust at Oswald St. Germaine when he came to Twelve, and why her mother never wanted to talk about Dior’s father. It was him, it was always him. Her father was none other than Twelve’s Escort. The silence, involving Dior staring, teary eyed, at the paper and Gloria, also teary eyed, trying to get her daughter’s attention, ended abruptly with Dior sliding the drawing of her father into her shirt and, in a fit of rage, started screaming at her mother.
“All these years!? All these years you’ve lied to me?! Why?! I thought he was dead… you told me he was dead! Not only is my father alive, but he’s the District Escort?! I’ve seen him so many times and I didn’t even know it. Mom, how could- how could you do this to me?! How could you be so selfish?!...”
The blaming turned into screaming, and the screaming turned into a full on argument from both parties. Daughter screamed at mother, mother screamed at daughter, and tears were shed. Eventually, Dior fled the house, running away into the night while her mother beckoned her back from the inside of their pathetic little home. Dior ended up staying at a friend’s house for the night and, as she lay her head down for sleep, her brain spun ‘round and ‘round, contemplating the events of the day and processing everything. Above all else, one thing danced around in her head: she had to see her father… she had to meet him face to face… and she knew exactly how she was going to do it.
A month or so later, the dreaded Reaping came knocking on the District’s door. That year was something special, or so the Capitol said. Since it was the twenty-fifth game, the first Quarter Quell, they called it, the Capitol added some new rules. Instead of randomly drawing the names of the tributes, the District’s themselves would have to vote for which boy and girl would be fighting to the death to bring their District honor in the bloody pageant. All of Twelve gathered in the District Square, ready to see which two unlucky brats would die this year. Dior, being one of them, stood with the rest of the fifteen year old girls. That morning, she ran out the door as fast as she could, not even bothering to wait for her mother to return home from her night shift. She hadn’t spoken to her since the incident, and she wasn’t about to start now. She had betrayed her, and that was that.
When Oswald St. Germaine walked on stage, Dior’s heart skipped a beat. There he was, her father, and he had no idea that she was there or that she even existed, for that matter. Well, that was all about to change. Instead of dipping his hand into two oversized bowls, the mayor handed Oswald two envelopes containing the names. Without a moment’s hesitation, he ripped open both envelopes and read both the names out at once.
“Without further ado, your tributes for the very first Quarter Quell are… Dior Bradt and Jebediah Jackson! Congratulations, the both of you.”
Gloria, upon hearing her daughter’s name, nearly collapsed to the ground when she heard her only child’s name. Frantically, she looked around, spotting her daughter calmly making her way to the stage, not an ounce of surprise on her face. She then looked around at the men and women besides her. Why weren’t they surprised? Dior was well liked… many of her friends and people she knew loved Dior… so why? Upon seeing her confusion, an elderly man leaned over to talk to Gloria.
“Why do you seem shocked? She campaigned for this pretty hard… did you not know?”
The day after the incident, Dior, while on her delivery errands, told everyone that she met, every last man, woman, and child, to write her name for the Hunger Games. It was all apart of her plan. If she were elected, then she would get to meet her dad. Of course, she would die, but that was a small price to pay for getting to spend time with her dad, the person she most wanted to meet since she was little.
Dior and Jebediah looked like polar opposites standing atop the stage. Dior appeared to belong to wealth while Jebediah was very obviously part of the deepest part of the slums. He was known as a thief around those, constantly stealing things for years and never paying any of it back. When they were ushered into the Town Hall, Dior tried to find her father, but he was nowhere to be seen. After asking around, Dior learned that he had gone straight to the train. So, after alerting the peacekeepers that she didn’t want to say goodbye to anyone (especially her mother) she boarded the train, the second chapter of her life beginning with the sight of a train fit for a king and a man sipping a cocktail, not a care in the world.
That night, after dinner, Dior followed her father back to his room. When he noticed that she was there, he looked at her quizzically, asking with his gaze what she was doing there. Taking a big, big gulp of air and closing her eyes, Dior announced to the man she barely knew that she was his daughter. Of course, he obviously didn’t believe her, but after she told him the name of her mother, his skin became pale and his eyes bulged out of his head. He collapsed to the chair behind him, his head buried deep in his hands. If word of his having a secret affair based daughter got out, his career and his reputation would be ruined. Not only was he the Escort of Twelve, something he did to get more appeal, he was a successful businessman. He had money, lots of it, and countless people working for and under him. He wasn’t about to let that all go to waste because some bastard child decided she wanted to come forward…
But, then, at that moment, he got an idea…
Getting up, he walked over to Dior and wrapped her in a hug, catching her off guard. Taking his hand, he rubbed her back slowly, just like a father would when comforting his child. With a deep sigh, he carefully pushed her away from him so he could get a good look at her. Dior watched, mouth slightly agape, as Oswald St.-- her father, told her just how happy he was to see her, to know that she existed, basically. He told her he hadn’t known, but that if he had, he would have done something about it. All the things she had been waiting to hear for years and years were being said to her and she just couldn’t contain herself. She broke down, crying, and rushed to hug her father again. She was so busy while she sobbed that she didn’t even realize her father looked disgusted at the fact that a random girl was getting his expensive new suit wet with her dirty tears.
From that point on, everything seemed like a blur to Dior. When they arrived at the Capitol, she was bombarded with a flurry of cries and applause, celebrating her and her arrival. She couldn’t help but smile as she walked from the train to the main building, waving at everyone who waved at her and even blowing a kiss to a few. She was happy, more happy than she had been in a long time. She had a father now, a father who cared about her and loved her, and she was away from District Twelve. She was being treated like an actual human being - more than just a human being, in fact - she was being treated like a celebrity and she loved every second of it.
Dior quickly rose to prominence during the pre-arena portion of the Hunger Games. She was a beautiful, young, was sweet, kind, and seemed only to glow brighter as time passed. The Capitol citizens loved her and, soon, she became one of the fan favorites, even outshining most of the careers. The fact that she, a outlier, seemed to appreciate the Capitol was well as its culture (she didn’t, really, but it was much better than District Twelve, and it was all she wanted, so she liked it because of that) greatly influenced her appeal value, too. She was something that the Capitol had yet to see in a tribute, and at a time where the games were hyped up to the max, that mattered more than anything.
Everything had gone well, the introduction, the parades, even private training didn’t go as bad as it could have (Dior scored a seven), but it was the interview that pushed her popularity over the edge and into an entirely new plane of existence. The night before, while she was in the shower, Oswald St. Germaine heard her singing. It wasn’t much, not a full on song, but it was enough to grasp her father’s attention. When she finished and walked out for dinner, her father ambushed her, wrapped his arm around her and gave her a big smile.
“Kiddo, I didn’t know you had such an amazing voice! I mean, really, your voice is almost angelic. It’s better than practically all of the Capitol grown songstresses, that’s for sure. You should use that, you know, in your interview. Give ‘em a little song, a little tune, something. They’ll eat it up, I’m sure of it. Also… I have another idea…”
So, when the time for the interview came ‘round, Dior was ready. She walked out onto the stage, adorned in a gold dress that matched the color of her hair. She was glowing like a star, thanks to some special makeup from her prep team, and she felt like a star, too. As the interview progressed, the Capitol started to love Dior even more than they could have possibly imagined. She was just so charming, so sweet, and, well, everything they wanted. However, it was towards the end that really cinched Dior’s place as the fan favorite of the year.
“Before I end, I’d like to make an announcement, if you don’t mind?”
“Why, of course not, doll, go ahead!”
“Well, you see, my father is here! He came here with me… and he’s right over there!”
Gasps filled the room as Dior pointed to her father, who had, by this point, stood up, bowed, gave a thumbs up to Dior, and then proceeded to sit back down as he waved to some people who screamed in admiration for him. Everything was going according to plan.
“Oswald St. Germaine is your father?! Why, that’s astounding! Incredible! Absolutely fantastic!”
“I know! I… I had never had a father before, but now I do! It’s been hard… but now I have him, and I don’t plan on missing out on any more time away from him. Actually, I don’t know if you all know, but today is his birthday! So… if it’s okay… I’d like to sing him happy birthday for all of you!”
And so, Dior began to sing. The moment she opened her mouth, she had sealed her fate. It was as if the entire Capitol grew silent in order to hear the angelic beauty sing for her dear father. When she had finished, a gargantuan applause erupted for Dior and it took a few minutes to calm everyone down to proceed with the final interview, but it didn’t really matter. Dior had stolen the heart of just about everyone in the Capitol.
When it came time to go into the arena, Dior was extremely nervous and scared for her life. In the back of her mind, she knew that she would never emerge as victor. It just wasn’t probable, and she knew that, but what she wanted to do was make her father proud. She wanted to show him that she wasn’t useless, that she is a daughter worth being proud of. These thoughts didn’t completely stop her from shaking as she rose into the arena, but it helped her a little bit. Suddenly, with a flash of bright light, she was there, in the arena, and the third chapter of her life had just begun.
The arena was a giant maze. The walls consisted of varying materials, such as brick, stone, grass/leaves/ clay, etc. The bloodbath was situated within the very center of the labyrinth with the golden cornucopia gleaming and full with deadly weapons and life saving food and tools. Dior ignored all of what was in and around the cornucopia because her father had told her that she wouldn’t need it. He told her that nearly everyone in the Capitol would sponsor her. While she trusted her father and believed in him, something nagged at her, telling her that she needed to get something, anything, from the bloodbath. What if she was attacked before she could get anything from sponsors? As the countdown came to an end and Dior was faced with the decision to fight or run, she made the decision to get something despite better judgement.
As fast as she could, she ran for the one thing that she had taken an interest in: a dull, golden shield with a large spike in the center. She ran as fast as her legs could take her. Fortunately for her, she made it to the shield, but, unfortunately, she wasn’t alone. A girl, about the same age as her, from District Five, tears brimming in her eyes, grabbed the shield at the same time. Screaming for her life, the girl from Five, in a panic for she did not see Dior at first, loosened her grip on the shield for a brief moment, but it was all Dior needed to rip the shield from her and slam the spike into the girl’s leg, causing her to fall to the ground. Knowing fully that she could have died just then, Dior, gripping the shield close to her, sprinted away from the golden horn, taking one of the many exits into the labyrinth. Right before she was gone, she turned to see the girl from Four ending the life of the one from Five, a sadistic smile on her face. Paralyzed by fear, Dior watched as the girl yanked out the sword, spotted Dior, locked eyes with her, and then licked the blood off the blade all while maintaining eye contact with Dior. With that, Dior turned around and ran away, hoping she would never see her again.
Over the next week, Dior and the rest of the tributes experienced a medley of torture spawning directly from the labyrinth. It seemed that around nearly every corner there was a mutt, a challenge, a hallucination, or a tribute to overcome. The maze was changing constantly, causing intense confusion amongst the tributes. Tensions were running high, especially since, with each passing day, the maze got smaller and smaller. Eventually, by day six, eighteen of the tributes had died and only six remained. Of the remaining tributes, one was Dior.
Her father had kept his word and, after day one, Dior had been blessed with numerous sponsor gifts, some that were so rare and so expensive that many wondered if they were even allowed to be used as sponsor gift. For example, of the gifts she received, one of them was four bombs, all of which were activated by a remote that emitted a high pitched, whistle like sound. Due to her sponsors, most of Dior’s time in the arena was spent in leisure compared to the other tributes. This, however, came to an end on day seven.
That morning, Dior, who had slept up against the wall, surrounded by her treasure trove, was awoken by two tributes, a boy and a girl, both from District Seven. She started to scream, but was quickly silenced by the girl from Seven screaming back at her.
“Shut up, bitch! God... “
“Should we just kill her now and get it over with?”
“No… I wanna watch her squirm. It’s her fault we haven’t gotten anything from sponsors. Just look at all this shit. They sent it all to her ‘cause she’s special or whatever. I don’t buy it. Listen, Blondie, you’re done--”
Before she could finish her rant, Dior had gotten up and rushed her, hoping to catch her off guard. Unfortunately, the boy from Seven intercepted her and put her in a headlock, knocking the shield away from her in the process. In a panic, Dior tried to reach inside her sleeve and pull out one of the hidden knives she had been gifted, but the other girl saw through her and yanked it away from her, holding it to Dior’s throat while her partner held her down. At this point, Dior started crying, for she knew that her time was up. She had made it so far… but it didn’t matter. She was about to die.
“Once you’re out of the way, blondie, all that’s left is those three career’s. With all your shit, we can take ‘em, no problem. They’ll be easy pickings--”
Just then, a cannon sounded in the distance, indicating that someone had died. At the same time, almost as if it was caused by the cannon, the walls around them started to collapse. Large chunks of rock flew everywhere including on the three tributes. Dior was pounded, but all she got was a few cuts and bruises and sprained a leg. As for the two from Seven, they were unlucky and got trapped underneath a large chunk of the wall. Dior, gasping for breath, eyes, wide, grabbed the hidden knife from the girl’s hands and looked down at the two who had, up until this point, had her cornered. They were struggling, trying their best to get away and survive, but they wouldn’t. With shaking hands, Dior took the knife and plunged it into the boys throat, dragging it across in a bloody smile.
Another cannon.
The girl started screaming, throwing all sorts of curses and foul words at Dior. She, too, was silenced by Dior right after she called Dior “daddy’s little bitch”. Another cannon sounded off and, just like that, there were only three tributes left. As she did her best to calm herself down and check her minor injuries, Dior gathered what was left of her sponsor gifts and went on her way, watching as the arena seemed to fall apart. The Quarter Quell was coming to a close and soon a victor would be crowned.
Later that day, as the sun began to slowly set, the three remaining tributes found themselves back where they had started: the center field where the bloodbath had started. The rest of the labyrinth and all of its tricks had been destroyed, leaving only the field and the three tributes. Dior, the boy from Two, and the girl from One were all that remained. As they entered the field (Dior putting on a front so as to make the Career’s think she wasn’t afraid of them) something… unexpected happened. The boy from Two gripped his sword and slammed it into the side of his partner, much to Dior, the girl, and the whole of Panem’s surprise. She died almost instantly, for the boy had pulled it out and slammed it into her heart, next. Now, there were only two.
When the final battle started, Dior did her best, but it was futile compared to the overall skill of the boy from Two. He was big, tall, and he was specifically trained for this. As he charged her, Dior tried her best to evade and counterattack. Unfortunately for her, her counterattack consisted of dodging attacks, blocking them with her shield, and then trying to throw things at the boy, Jason, so as to injure him from afar. She had just thrown her last throwing knife and was reaching into her pocket when she realized that she still had three of her mini-bombs. The remote to detonate them was still there, too. With a shaky smile, she quickly took two of the bombs and threw them at the ground around Jason’s feet. He stopped, confused as to what she had thrown, but his eyes widened when he looked up and saw her attempting to take the remote out of her pocket. Reaching down, he grabbed one of the throwing knives that Dior had thrown and launched it at her hand. His aim was excellent and the knife penetrated her hand, causing her to drop the remote and scream in agony. Before she could react, Jason had closed the distance between the two tributes. It was over.
In a matter of minutes, Dior was in a similar place to where she was hours ago: the boy had placed her in a headlock and had his sword pressed into her side, ready to end it all. Looking to her left, Dior saw the remote to detonate the bombs broken on the ground. A sob escaped her lips. It was all over for her. This was the end.
“Man, this must be pretty sad for you, huh, princess? You got so far and now you’re gonna die, just like that. Sucks, don’t it?”
“...Fuck you.”
“Aww.. now that ain’t nice!” Jason said with clenched teeth. Slowly, he started to press his sword into Dior’s side, slowly penetrating her and drawing blood. She started to scream, but couldn’t quite finish before Jason started talking again.
“Any last words, princess? After all, I wanna give everyone a nice, bloody show of me tearing you limb from limb.”
Dior started to open her mouth, prepared to give her father one last message before her death, but, just before she did, one of the bombs that she had thrown at Jason went off.
“What?! How di--”
Even though she was shocked, confused, and in severe pain, Dior knew that this might be her only chance to win. Using the convenient distraction, she turned and kicked Jason right in the genitals, causing him to double over. She glanced to her side, looking for anything that could help her. Everything was either broken (like her remote) or too far away for her to get to it in time. Just then, she remembered that she still had a bomb in her pocket. Reaching for it, she took it out, looked at it, and, in a moment of sheer desperation, got one final idea.
Running up to Jason, she kicked him in the crotch once more, causing him to double over again. Before he could hit the ground, Dior grabbed his face and shoved the miniature bomb into his throat. In the process, he bit down hard on her arm, causing previous cuts to burst open and for Dior to wince in pain, but she didn’t stop. After she thrust it inside his mouth, the girl from Twelve pushed him away from her as far as she could and, opening her mouth, let out a noise that could only be described as a high pitched whistle. Her vocal range was so high that she could hit such notes. It was a talent she had that she used to amuse herself and others back home. Now, however, it was her final saving grace. If this didn’t work, she was doomed…
...and it worked.
After a few seconds of using her whistle register, Dior was blown back as the bomb in Jason detonated and he exploded. She couldn’t hear anything, nor could she feel anything at that moment, but she stared into the heavens, her mouth slightly open and her eyes wide with tears falling from them. She was alive. She had won. Somehow… she had won.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, may I present to you the winner of this year’s Hunger Games, the winner of the first ever Quarter Quell, Dior Bradt!”
After her victory, all of the Capitol rejoiced for a new Victor had been crowned. However, not everything was all rainbows and sunshine. The moment she was crowned as Victor at the post-game interview, riots sparked in the Districts. Many people, specifically the family and friends of the people Dior killed in the arena, claimed that the relation of Dior and her father, who was an influential Capitol figurehead, caused certain events of the games, such as the walls randomly breaking, trapping the two from Seven, the first bomb randomly going off, allowing Dior to claim victory, to be swayed in her favor. These riots were immediately suppressed by the Capitol and its military forces and the riots were soon subject to Panem lore and legend. However, the memory belonging to those directly involved still remained.
As for Dior, after the Quell, she returned home to Twelve for a short period of time. When she arrived, everyone showered her in praise and joy. Due to her winning, the largest gift for the Victor’s District in history had been given to Twelve. Some would argue that the surge of food and gifts allowed for District Twelve to remain standing. Without it, many of its inhabitants would have starved to death. They hailed her as a hero much to Dior’s amusement. However, Dior was only concerned with one thing: fetching her mother.
Her mother wasn’t there to greet her, so she figured that she was still mad at her for leaving. When she arrived at the shack they used to share, Dior was greeted with a scene straight from her nightmares. There, in the middle of the room was her mother dangling from a rope. She had hung herself… she was dead. Dior only stopped screaming and crying when peacekeepers heard her wails and came to see what was wrong. Upon seeing what had happened, Dior was ushered away to keep from harming herself or others. Walking into the building, she saw her father there, a frown on his face. She ran into his arms, sobbing harder than ever. He embraced her, rubbing her back. He had been informed of what happened by other peacekeepers. Taking his daughter by the hand, he told her of what was to happen now. He told her that he had adopted her and that she would be living in the Capitol with him. Effective immediately, they were to go on the Victory Tour (due in part to large demand for Dior from the Capitol citizens) and, after it was over, they would stay in the Capitol. With a small smile and a nod, Dior hugged her father, burying her face into the crook in his neck, openly weeping at the loss of her mother.
For Dior, the start of a new chapter had begun. With the death of her mother came a new life shared with her father. Once the Victory Tour had ended, the pair settled down in the Capitol, as promised, and Dior began a new life. Not even a month after the Tour ended, people were lining up at Dior’s home, asking and pleading her to sing for them. They wanted to hear the voice that had not only won their hearts, but had won her the Hunger Games. She obliged and, before she knew it, a few months later, she was performing for audiences of thousands upon thousands of people. She had, in essence, become the Capitol’s Superstar. To this day, Dior continues to sing for all, gracing the Capitol and, sometimes, on certain holidays or events, and before and after every game to sing the Capitol anthem, she sings for the District’s, too.
She now has all that she ever wanted. Fame, glory, comfort, and, most importantly, her father and freedom from District Twelve. All of her wildest dreams had come true…
Poseidon Bertram || District 4 || 16 || Victor of the 40th || FC: Cody Christian
Weapon of Choice: Knives/Bow and Arrow
Private Training Score: 10
Number of Kills: 7
Arena: Crumbling City
Poseidon has been described as logical, protective, witty; cunning, brutal, and egotistical
Poseidon Bertram had a relative happy childhood. He was raised by his father because his mother died when she gave birth to his younger brother. His father tried to do his best, but it was impossible because he had to work to bring food home. That’s why he enrolled him in the career academy as soon as he learned how to walk.
Things were quite challenging there. Every kid wanted to be the best, to bring fame and glory to the district. Poseidon cared little about it, the only time when he seemed to care was when there were rewards. It wasn’t unheard of for them to give kids incentives, which included money and other items. And it was when such things would be issued that caught his attention, because it meant relief for his father who had to work from sunrise to sunset.
Poseidon had a knack for learning, yet, what separated him from the rest of the others in the academy was his intelligence. Not only did he focus on learning how to use weapons, but also he strengthened other skills. He always had in mind he could be reaped. Of course, it was not something he was looking forward to. It was suicidal. Little did he know he’d be forced to volunteer after his father had an accident and badly injured his head. Poseidon desperately tried to get money to pay for his treatment, but he couldn’t. His dad didn’t wake up. Soon his condition worsened. Poseidon didn’t have a choice; he volunteered when he was just a 16-year-old boy.
Mistakenly, most of the people assumed he shared common flaws with other careers such as the fact he was not used to experiencing pain, thirst, and hunger. In addition, strangers thought he was burdened down with muscle and unusually tall which suggested he wasn’t all that agile. They assumed because he came from a rich district, he was not used to be exposed to the elements…they were dead wrong.
During his time in the capitol, he played the ‘career’ role very well. Most of the time he spent giving others a deadly glance and spitting the occasional threat in order to make them think there was nothing ordinary about him. However, he made sure to display his charm and good looks during the interview. Naturally, his good looks as well as the fact he had a more developed psyche than the rest of the adults got him more sponsors that he could have ever imagined.
His games were not easy because they took place in an abandoned city. There were no bodies of water he could use in his advantage. The only place where one could find water was abandoned parks or certain houses that still had running water; however, one had to think really well where to go due to mutts roaming the city. The cornucopia was situated on top of a skyscraper and there was the proper equipment to ascend.
Unfortunately for some tributes the ropes were impossible to cut; so it was impossible to get an easy kill there, in addition, it was a long way to ascend the cornucopia. Many tributes decided to improvise weapons instead of risking the climb while others fell to their deaths. It was one of those rare occasions in the Hunger Games where the blood bath was not as big as other years because very few tributes managed to get to the top like Poseidon did; he was more agile than many people assumed. He killed three tributes there, the male tributes from 5 and 12. They tried to fight for weapons. Then, the girl from 10 who tried to take a bag from the cornucopia and ran.
The tributes that decided to take the safest route and stayed on the ground found out there were tracker jackers dotted around the arena. The game makers made this in order to make tributes find each other and fight. For those who decided to hide inside, they found out most of the buildings were plagued by genetically modified spiders which poison dissolved your skin and inside in matter of hours. Things were not safe at night either; rabid dogs were released to kill whoever was on the ground. Poseidon and the career pack decided to go hunting. The ones he killed were the male tributes from 3, 6, and 8.
The final two were the boy from District One and himself. The game makers took them to a small platform that was on top of a building. At first, it seemed Poseidon had the under hand because of his size even though they had the same weapon, a combat knife.
The kid from One tried to stab him several times; he managed to slice his skin. Poseidon did the same, but his attack was a little more successful because he managed to cut two fingers from the other guy. The tribute from One got blinded by rage, so he tried to tackle him to make him fall. Fortunately, Poseidon was faster and he managed to avoid the attack. It was just matter of minutes until he ended the other boy’s life by stabbing his skull.
Poseidon managed to save his father’s life after his victory. He was given more than enough money to pay his father’s medical treatment. He got a hero’s welcome when he returned back to District 4, yet, he was not happy because his father was not completely healed. He was still in a coma and the bills were increasing. He tried to used his influence as a victor to have his father treated by the doctors of the Capitol. It didn’t work, Snow refused it. Instead, he offered him a deal. He would keep his father alive and well if he accepted to sleep with sponsors. Poseidon accepted, he couldn’t let him die.
Now he is just waiting for the first person to take his virginity away. Contrary to what most of the people would think, he doesn’t feel that bad for killing the other tributes. He simplifies things by thinking it was them or him. He knows he won’t have a warm welcome once the victory tour starts. He cares little though. He believes people are hypocrites who would not give a damn if he had been killed.
