The 99th Hunger Games

So. These are my (DrXax's) first ever Hunger Games in my life. I can't emphasize too much on begging you to please bear with me and my English. It's not perfect and it most likely will stay that way for the near future. Other than that, I do hope that you enjoy this Games and do nag me on the comments to update please.

Twist:
Mwahahaha, this is where it gets interesting. Only characters that are mentally disturbed can be accepted. Now, don't get too stressed on me, your character doesn't necessarily have to be dingo-bat crazy. He/she can have a backstory that has affected them psychologically, or just slightly have obsessions over stuff. Yes, you can also have totally crazy chars. However, do keep in mind that I will amplify their madness in these games.

District 1 Reaping:
No. I’m not going to put up with the reaping today. Not again. Even if father dares to make me go, I’m not going. It’s scary and disturbing enough to be standing in the middle of the whole stinking teenagers of District 1, let alone having the knowledge that one slip of paper could diminish your probabilities of living one more year from 100% to 1/30, because apparently, District 13, 14 and 15 will be participating this year too. It is a total blow-off from the Capitol. They say they want to stop the killing. That they want to stop the Games. That’s crap. If they wanted that, they wouldn’t send 6 more people to die this year, and now that they’ve done so, they aren’t going to stop. The new Districts will most likely continue to send their pair of tributes annually from now on.

The good news is that as far as I am concerned, my plan is still on board. All I had to give that stupid and weak-minded Peacekeeper was a small amount of money and a ruby necklace for his wife. So naïve! Truth to be told, it wasn’t a real ruby necklace. It was a fake… but you know what they say: “Corrupted people only get corrupted rewards.” That’s what I say, at least.

Deep inside of me I do feel sad for the Peacekeepers. And for Panem. Our country is rotting to hell and drowning in corruption, and the only thing that the people whose job is to maintain peace do, is to do the contrary by taking cheap bribes to make the dirty job for the citizens. But whatever, I guess. It works for me and it helped me with the most vital part of my plan.

That thought makes me smirk. How people are so easily manipulated. How people can be swayed just by material objects I stand up from my bed and go to my bathroom. I look at myself in the mirror. Perfect as always, Zapphire…

Then I notice it; my blood turns ice cold, my face becomes moonlight pale and my heart becomes an unsteady yet rapid bang of war drums. A vile and abominable pimple sits just on the tip of my nose. I am most definitely not having this. Even if I am not going to attend the reaping, I’ve got to stay presentable in case anything happens. A tear comes out of my left eye. Calm down darling; you’re beautiful even if you have an volcano about to burst on your face.

But I don’t believe it. I refuse to believe it.

I quickly search through my bathroom drawers, my hands trembling anxiously in anticipation to finding that blessed object. I find the small box containing it on its insides. I gingerly take the lid off and pick the object between my right index finger and my thumb. I look at it cautiously, almost as if feeling that my fate depends on it. I quickly rub alcohol on it before warily directing it to my nose and popping the pimple open. I squeeze that sucker inside-out and then place a piece of wet cotton with alcohol on top of it. I wince as it burns, but I take it in.

Beauty hurts indeed, but not being beautiful hurts even more.

“Zapphire, dear, are you ready to go to the reaping?!” My father inquires from downstairs.

“As if! I’m not going to that foolish ceremony this year, father. I’m a grown woman now, I can take my own decisions!” I retort with a small tone of indignation.

“You have to go! It’s illegal not to do so. Either way, if you don’t get ready to go now, the Peacekeepers will come here for you and take you in any state that they find you…”

My heart stops beating for a split-second. ''Oh my. What if they do? Would they really take me in my pink zebra night gown? I guess I will have to go…'' I don’t reply. I just nod and get undress before hitting the shower and cleansing my whole body from any dirt particle that might’ve managed to illicitly touch my sacred body. There aren’t any, of course, but I still wash myself. Hygiene is extremely imperative.

When I’m done, I grab a lilac spring ruffle strapless dress with white small polka dots on it. I then wrap around my waist a thick leather belt and then slide my feet inside a pair of teal 5-inch heels. Carefully, I braid my hair into three Dutch braids that meet in a certain point, where then I twist my hair and make a bun out of it. I spray some perfume on my neck and then I groggily walk down the stairs, only to find and impatient father of mine in his everyday suit.

“Nice dress. Who knows, maybe if you get reaped, all the people will look at it and be jealous of you.” The unfortunate man chuckles, obviously teasing.

In response, I direct a death glare towards him. “Father, you know very well that we don’t joke with the reaping; much less today. Besides, everybody is jealous of me every time. Now, step aside.”

And so he does. Not even he is immune to my orders. I walk out of the house only to vaguely listen my father’s long and regretful sigh. I find it amusing, and my face makes sure to show it. “I’ll wait for you at the square.” I say. “See you after the reaping.”

——

The whole District congregated in the square. As I had recalled from last year, it indeed was smelly. So much sweat. Even from the girls. That was oddly disturbing. They clearly didn’t have enough education to know that hygiene was important. But that is not important, I do have that knowledge and I did take a shower. I’m sure I don’t stink. At least not like the others…

I start feeling nausea and dizziness. I want this stupid Reaping to get over with.

Our ‘beautiful’ Escort stands up in the podium and greets us all. She introduces herself, but I don’t pay attention to her name. She gives us a speech that she has obviously memorized. Everyone nods absentmindedly. She shifts uncomfortably and I notice her blue and red boot-heels. Ugh, hideous; that poor woman has no taste in clothes whatsoever. Then I notice her pastel coral dress that definitely doesn’t match her shoes. Her long brown hair is ironed perfectly, but then I notice a small burnt patch of hair. I roll my eyes and a disgusted look lingers on my face for a moderate amount of time. If she’s from the Capitol, what awaits the rest of humanity? I must be one of the few people in Panem with a decent taste in clothes.

A video is shown on the humongous screen. We all watch it attentively and from the corner of eyes, I can see our Escort mouthing every single line of dialogue. When the video finishes, I’m left with grogginess and a sleepy mind.

“Now, for the most awaited part; the tributes! As always… Ladies first.” She seems anxious and drops her hand to the bowl with all the slips of paper. Her hand moves gingerly before grasping onto a small slip of paper, rising it with care out of the bowl, opening it, and reading the girl’s name out loud.

“Zapphire O’Quaid.”

My mouth drops to my stomach as my inside organs orchestrate an intricate knot that keeps me from swallowing my saliva and breathing. My heart pounds a million times per minute as I shake my head to listen to the actual name pulled out. Some girls look for me but don’t find me, as I’m wearing a pair of stylish dark glasses. The Escort repeats my name and it dawns on me. I am going to the Hunger Games. Then the people notice me and stand aside so that I can walk up to the podium.

I confidently stride all the way until I am next to the Escort. My steps are calculated and perfect. They make me look better than I already do, which, although it may seem impossible, isn’t. The Escort whispers me to take off my glasses but I don’t. I'm not giving her that satisfaction. Just as she asks me for my words, a hand shoots up from the crowd. “I volunteer as tribute!” the owner exclaims.

A devilish smirk forms from ear to ear in my visage. Not because I am going to be replaced, but because this is going better than I had planned originally. She is the daughter of the stupid psychologist that tried to make me go nuts. His most beloved thing in this world, apparently. I made sure that he’d pay for his sins long before today.

That’s when the gunfire starts, and a split-second later, the young girl who volunteered has approximately 4 bloody bullet holes on her chest. She falls to the ground and everybody gasps. Everybody besides me, that is. Everyone looks for the one responsible for this, but they won't find the Peacekeeper that I hired as a sniper. I also made sure he was stealthy.

Some try to run away, but the Peacekeepers surround the square and they won't let the teenagers out.

But the ceremony must go on.

"Any more volunteers?" The Escort asks and I face-palm in front of everyone. Of course, District 1 is a place where normally both females and males volunteer, however, I think that the people will have second thoughts on volunteering now that the latest volunteer has been brutally murdered. Cowards.

"No? Well, we will now go on with the male tribute." The woman in the coral dress continues. She walks to the bowl with the male slips and quickly snatches one out and reading it:

"Bronze Gollyfleck"

Everyone looks around, trying to find the owner of the name. Meanwhile, out of the corner of my eye, I notice a cute guy laughing and walking to the podium. Nobody stops him. His mad laughter leaves the whole District with a sense of uneasiness. Any attraction that I had towards him seems to have vanished already. He forcefully takes the microphone from the Escort and speaks to it, his crazy voice echoing through the square, resonating.

"My name is Linen Moonstone, and I volunteer as tribute."

His face is void of any emotion, and his stare stays blank. Something about him feels just... off. I feel quite disturbed and uncomfortable just by looking at my now fellow District tribute for the Games.

The woman with horrible taste in fashion decides to continue talking, despite the fact that nobody wants to listen to her anymore, “Well, these year’s tributes have been chosen finally! Let’s all show them our support.” The whole District puts their three fingers in their mouth and then showed their palm to the tributes. As far as I know, I think it was considered treason about 30 years ago, but now it is a sign of respect, a sign of solidarity.

Not that I’d care enough to feel respected or supported. I know that once the Games start, every single one of the them showing their so-called ‘respect’ will want me to die as brutally as the vixen that I am.

I can’t really say that I blame them.