Recently I've been striving to write but I've had a writer's block. I know, weird. Anyway, I decided I'd do a fanfiction and do it with what has to be my favourite book, The Hunger Games.

It's not my writing style, but I tried to mimick that of Suzanne Collins. Meaning, it's not so descriptive and the words are put together differently [eg. from what I wrote ages ago here, Thoa-Thoa] but it's fun, even if it feels really lazy. And yeah, if you're looking for more Hunger Games material, then, I gave it a shot, lol.

Please reply. And critique like hell if you wish, but my opinion on the writing itself is still not entirely my own.





Chapter One


I lift the rosy apple and bite wholeheartedly into it. Crunchy, juicy. Worm-free. It all equalled win. I swallow with desperation, for it was rare I could just stand here and eat a fresh apple, usually I could only do so while in a tree or crouching behind a bush. But now that everyone was marching out of the orchard towards the Square, it seemed like I had all the time in the world. Well, maybe not all.

That’s right, it was Reaping Day.

My home is in District 11, Panem, the new country that was born from the ashes of what was once North America -- quite like a phoenix. And, yes, I do pay attention in school when the Harvesting Season isn’t labouring us. I live in a family of nine.

My mother and her sister -- my aunt -- are those who tend to chores such as washing, cooking, cleaning and looking after my grandma, who had old age heavy upon her, yes, and usually spent her hours eating hot rabbit broth in bed. So that’s three down. Then there’s the other five, not including me, who are all my siblings. My older brother, Edison, is eighteen. He brings in most of the income that our family survives off by working hard in bison farms. My older sister, Faythe, is sixteen and works as a maid and a nurse, scooting between different families every week. Then there’s my younger brother, Ryyan, who picks apples in the orchard; he’s twelve. And then the twins, Melbourne and Kosey. Both cute boys, six months old.

So yes, that’s my family. And it’s rather large. I used to wonder why, until Faythe stormed in one day when I was nine and screamed her hurt when she discovered that my mother had been earning extra money working in a brothel. Of course, I had no idea what that was, and it wasn’t until a little less than a year ago she stopped going out at night. Still, that’s the reason when people say the word “dad” I go, “What’s that?”

Faythe still is fuming; hasn’t forgiven mum but hasn’t abandoned her either. My aunt had leant her shoulder to mum for a while now, and was never angry at her, more pitiful. Edison is good at hiding his emotions, so I don’t know how he feels. The kids of course are too young to understand (nor should they). Oh, and Gran-Gran knows heck. How could anyone expect otherwise?

Me? I don’t really care. Because I think I can pick the shade and the shadow in someone, so it was half-expected nearly. There’s other things to worry about, such as whether or not we’ll have dinner. The “advancing” Districts in Panem aren’t rich in the least. There are a dozen all together and they say District 12 has it the hardest because the people there specialise in coal. We specialise in agriculture and you’d think that sounds a lot better than coal, but I doubt it. I personally work either in the orchards or herding bullock. Sounds easier than mining, I guess, but they probably don’t have herds of buffalo tramping through their streets, or so many animals dawdling about houses. Many are strays no one will dare claim or even kill for food, because most are riddled with diseases that can cause havoc on your immune system. The streets here are dust and grime. The houses of most are mud-brick because it’s easy to make with the rivers and lakes we have.

It’s a pretty run-down and dangerous place. But to make it all the more depressing, we all have to fill-in to listen out for the tributes called out this year for the Hunger Games.

The Hunger Games is a repulsive thing created by the Capitol, which is the government that ministers the whole country of Panem. Every year, one boy and one girl from each of the twelve Districts between the ages of twelve and eighteen are drawn at random to compete in a live, televised event. This event takes place in a humungous arena that can be anything from a frozen wasteland to a stretch of barren plains. The objective of the game is, the tributes have to kill each other. There are no rules except to kill, the last one surviving wins eternal glory, fame and riches.

The names of all the teenagers were thrown in beforehand. If you’re twelve, your name must go in at least once. If you’re thirteen, twice, and so -on. In order to make the chances fair. The catch is though, if you’re as impoverished as my family is, you can opt to put your name down more times in exchange for tesserae. Each tesserae is worth a meagre year’s supply worth of grain and oil for one person. The more you can get, the better because it’s yours to do with and sell if you wish. I was going to put my name in ten times more to help save up, but Edison wouldn’t allow it. He wouldn’t allow it any year, and he wouldn’t allow it for Ryyan or Faythe either. Only him. I can survive it if I’m called up, he’d said.

I toss the apple core into the grass and make my way back into the town towards my house. I’d promised Faythe I’d do myself up for today. Everyone does it for some reason, I’ve no idea why. I mean, they all line up in the Square witnessing the tributes names being called out, but if my name was called out the least thing I’d be worrying about would be how I look.

I crouch down through the low doorway into our mud-brick house. No one’s in here, even Gran-Gran had to get up out of bed because Peacekeepers search through every house at two o’clock and if you weren’t in the Square by then, you’d be imprisoned. Stupid, as most little things.

I trek into Faythe’s room and examine myself in our only mirror; a metre high, foot-wide shard that a merchant was auctioning off several years ago. Compared to my family, and even a lot of people it seemed in District 11, my features were a little eccentric. Most had black or bronzed skin around here, mine looked as if it were naturally tan once upon a time but all of a sudden I decided to have a hissy-fit with the sun and ignore it for about six months. It wasn’t sickly or pasty in colour, just the shadow seemed brown while the rest more cream. My hair was black, straight, but kind of puffy and cut in layers and a fringe. It was how Faythe did it, cause she always wanted to be a hairdresser. I didn’t mind, most in our district had boring mud-brown hair, but my black hair gave me a more “emo” appearance. When I asked what that was, Faythe only told me it was an old trend before pinning a small yellow bow next to my crown.

My eyelashes are sable, my eyes grassy green with flecks of gold. My height was of about 5’8 and my figure was skinny, not particularly graceful nor slender, with a medium-sized bust.

I thought I’d leave my yellow bow in and just threw on a dull-green shirt and brown jeans. Seemed good enough. I’ll chase up my theories, I promised, because even though there was a lovely red dress waiting for me, it seemed a waste to wear it to something as wretched and criticized by me as the Hunger Games. I ignored it.

I go outside and estimate that it was nearly two o’clock, so I make my way towards the Square through our mud-slated streets. When I get there it was extremely crowded, as presumed, but I managed to weasel my way in to stand with the other fifteen year-olds. I was fourteen, but tomorrow I’d be fifteen, so I decided this was as big as rebel as I was going to get towards the Capitol.

Every year, a woman arrives in District 11 named Blaine Babista to read out the tributes for this year. She comes from the Capitol, so she has a sort of odd accent that seems impossible to mimic. She’s a rounded woman with dark skin, long cornrows and square glasses. She sits and waits as the mayor reads out the long history of Panem. It happens every year. While he raves on, I pick out Ryyan in front of me, rather scared because it is his first Hunger Games. I don’t blame him, really. Faythe and Edison are behind me too. My mother I spot watching Ryyan closely, my aunt holding Gran-Gran and slowly feeding her more broth. I sigh, wishing there could be a little more. Just a little more for us … but I’m over it now.

“Ladies first!” pipes Blaine Babista. I half-watch her, half spin around in search of Faythe. She’s likely to get in there if she managed to slip tesseraes in behind Edison’s back. I shudder.

Then there’s murmurs. I’m guessing Blaine read out the girl tribute, but I wasn't paying attention. I watch people turn around in front of me so I turn too, wondering who it is. I spot Faythe between the crowd, her face pale as a sheet.

Oh no … not her …

But then I realise as Blaine calls out the name again.

“Trinity Ealwing?”

No, it wasn’t Faythe. It was me.

not bad, not bad. Rereading what the Hunger Games were was kinda annoying but thats only because I've read the book.
I did like the way you kept the odd Panem names lol
Are you going to write more?

I know what you mean lol
cool, you gonna write all the way through the Games?

Thanks n_n at first I was going to do that, but I realised I'd get bored and it wasn't the right environment for Trin's story, because you'll see soon how it has affected her and will affect her [plus, I wanted her to have dark skin =}]. Nah, she's not like Rue except for the play of innocense maybe every now and then, but eh, you'll see d; Oh really? Whom might that be? The next chapter is longer, but it's building up the story.

Gosh, this writing style is off xD Please critique if you can.


Chapter Two

Bang, bang. Headshot. That’s what it felt like.

My body feels cemented over and I can’t swallow properly. A film of cold sweat has coated me, like glue. I’m not sure what I’m looking at, but I’m aware that I’m being deafened by the silence of crowd around me. I take a wild guess and say I’m breathing and my heart is hammering near my throat, but other than that, nothing.

Though, the for some reason the theme song for the Hunger Games is on repeat in the back of my mind.

“Go on, Trin,” someone eggs me on. I don’t know who it is, but I know I have to walk. Slowly, with some help from a Peacekeeper, I’m led towards the stage and gently shoved up the stairs. My bare feet feel heavy, my hair feels hot, just like the back of my neck. I peer around at the many spidery cameras fixed upon me, the lenses that are recording this for all of Panem wink at me in the sunlight.

“And so,” announces Blaine Babista, “I give you Trinity Ealwing, the girl tribute of District 11!”

I blink at the thousands before me, a surge of sickness welling up inside my stomach. I try to spot a family member in the crowd, mainly Faythe, but there’s more than too many. Loneliness places shackles on my shoulders.

“And now for the boy tribute,” Blaine says as she fishes around in the other glass sphere before pulling out a slip. She adjusts her glasses so she can read the name. “Alder Martins?”

Alder Martins? I recall the name, from where I can’t pinpoint.
Without much hesitation (at least, not as much as me) a tall boy of about seventeen walks up to the stage. He was well built; broad shoulders, lean body and with skin like honey. His hair was auburn, messed points framing his face. His eyes, though, were dark; bruised under those raven eyebrows. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him.

“So, ladies and gentlemen, here are your two tributes!” The mayor rehearses the Treaty of Treasons and then potions for Alder and I to shake hands. We shift towards each other with me avoiding eye contact before we shake hands. It’s more like a flick of the wrist, neither of us seeming to want anything to do with the other. I harden myself inside at the thought, cause from the look of this guy, this seems to be the way it’s going to be played out between us.

Suddenly, the anthem of Panem blares. I try to concentrate on not biting my knuckles and plotting an escape route, cause I know it’s useless and would only name me as unpredictable and unstable, which I’m not. Well, if it were up to me to judge, I’d say I was inside. Along with lazy when I can be … but that’s for no one else but me to say.

An assembly of Peacekeepers create a wall between us and the crowd, leading us towards the Justice Building. I feel like I’ve been blamed for being a serial killer. There are still cameras swarming, some hovering in the air to snap aerial shots. I don’t like it, being the centre of attention. It makes me an uneasy. I just wish I could be left all alone and have nothing to do with any of these people.

Luckily, I’m assigned to a room by myself in short time inside. The aroma of it is so strong I feel like I’ve just passed a barricade. Everything is so clean, so new … so expensive. Nothing like home. I don’t think I like this either. Carpet below me, as green as a ripe lime and the paint on the walls an eggshell white. I sit on the lounge and sink into it, running my hands over the velvet in awe. It’s nothing like home. It feels so … artificial.

I’m left here for a while, suffocating in this new aromas. I assume my family should be here any moment before I’m carted off, but they never come. Worry gnaws at me, and in frustration and stand up and pace the room, even try to turn the knob of the door, only to find it locked.
I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to. I want to get out, I want to leave. I want to be home. I’d rather be impoverished for all my life rather than go into this. I’d rather spend my life sleeping under a pile of snow than do this. I want to see my family. I need to see Faythe. She can’t leave me. Don’t leave me, I beg her in my mind. Please don’t leave me.

It’s like a bridge collapsed in my chest and I try not to cry. I’ll admit to the world that I’m frightened, because I am. I’ve seen the acts of gore in the previous Hunger Games. Kids killing each other. Mauling each other. Gore blemishing their ravenous faces. Entrails spilling at their feet. Pain. Agony. I don’t want to be involved. It’s not where I’m supposed to be. I’m meant to be laying amongst my newborn lambs while I shepherd them. Or feeding the bison by the glassy river as dusk kicks in. Or lazing in an apple tree. Not this. I’m not built for this.

I feel like I’ve been in this tiny, inhumane room for hours. In that period of time I’ve been pacing, curling up in the corner, shifting the lounge chairs around in my irritation, drumming my fists on the door and frantically wiping my hands over and over on my shirt, even though the material doesn’t absorb sweat very well.

Finally I hear the click of the door unlocking and press myself against the far wall, blinking as if I haven’t seen a human in years. I expect Faythe but, no, it’s a cluster of Peacekeepers. With mighty hands, they drag me by the upper arms out of my small room and towards the back of the Justice building.

There’s a rusty brown truck there, the sorts with a tray at the back for carrying boxes of fruit. It’s the only sorts of vehicles around because they’re so durable for the rough roads out here that not much else can really stand it. I’m led towards the back where inside I already see Alder leaning against the wood planks that board either side of the tray. His collar is turned up to repel the cold. I eye him, determined to find his expression but I see none.

We arrive at the train station. I’ve never seen a train before, though there are a lot of railroads through District 11 I’ve had to lead the bison over before. I have to always pick the areas overgrown with the most weeds and sunk in enough gravel to not risk getting their hooves stuck. The train tracks here are not overgrown with anything, they’re new. The train itself is like a long, thin metal snake as ugly as the Justice Building. I don’t want to go near it, and I’m quite obsessed with the whole idea of it before I realise more lenses are pointed in my direction again. I gaze up at a projection of our image in the sky for those at the station blocked by Peacekeepers and cameramen to admire. Alder looks rather normal, not even hard. It’s like someone just asked him to wear his face today. I, on the other hand, look a little beat. Parts of my hair have frizzled slightly from sweat and my little yellow bow is a bit lopsided, but other than that, I look blank. Apart from my eyes that seem a little wide and curious.

We file inside the train as the doors shut. Slowly, as if sliding on oil, it departs from the station, away from my home. District 11. The thought doesn’t register properly cause I’m enthralled by the speed for minutes on end of this thing. Looking out the window, I imagine I’m a golden eagle closing in on its prey.

I’ve provided with my own chambers. Inside is fancy, to say the least. There’s more carpet, more paint, a bed with a quilt, more furniture, a mirror. A bathroom, even, with tiles and little things like moisturiser, toothbrushes and bobby pins. Moisturiser I’ve never really thought I’ve needed, toothbrushes we use don’t even have handles and bobby pins? What is a bobby pin?

I play with the hot water taps for a while before Blaine enters my room with a polite little rap at the door.

“Hello sweetie,” she says, sitting on my bed. I blink at her cautiously from in my bathroom. Even with her smiling eyes and brilliant white teeth against the darkness of her skin, I can’t find the heart to trust her. She’s helping feed me to the Capitol. I can’t find hope in that, I’m sorry.

She flicks a couple of long dreadlocks behind her shoulder and says in her gentle, rich voice. “Now listen, you can do whatever you want in here. There are nice clothes in the cupboards so pick whatever you like and do yourself up however you wish. Just be in time for supper in an hour, got it?” She winks at me and I give her not the slightest reaction. “Go on, it’s at your disposal.”

She rises and strides out. I watch her without a word before she wheels around and says, “I hope I’ll get to know you this evening, so, be ready for me!” She closes the door. This woman couldn’t get all the more aggravating. Why would she want to get to know me? She doesn’t care, she’s getting paid.

I sigh. It’ll be interesting doing myself up though, I guess. I find my assortment of garments and picked out those witch I liked the most. Black and white converses, white skinny geans and a black singlet. I would’ve worn maybe a dress, but I’m not in the mood. I just want something that I think looks me and I can still imagine myself herding my bullock in. I go to the mirror and rearrange my hair so the layered bits frame my face properly and tuck in my little bow. Imagining Faythe when she first did this for me makes me want to cry, but I suck it up by pressing my palm and coiled fingers against my flushing cheek and temple.

Soon I’m collected by Blaine who leads me through a series of corridors towards an empty table. We both sit at it; it’s against a window and the seats are large, red lounges built into the floor with high backs. For a moment dread crawls inside me because I’m worried I’ll be eating alone with just Blaine until I see Alder stride into the carriage, wearing the same clothes as he was back in District 11. Behind him walks someone else.
He’s our mentor. I’ve seen him before, the only surviving winner of District 11. He’s tall with ebony skin and a white beard and hair. He’s wearing a handsome blue suit with a claret tie. I immediately feel small in his presence.

His name, if I can remember, is Kier. Kier Dustan. So, Kier Dunstan in all his epic glory sits down like an old-fashioned gentleman next to Blaine on the other side of me while Alder sits next to me, his hands buried in the pockets of his jacket.

Dinner follows in courses. I’m astonished by the sight of it. French onion soup, Greek salad, salmon strips by pine dip and slices of carrot, lean lamb chops seasoned with a dozen herbs and stripped of fat, wild turkey soup and a delicate looking bomb-alaska.

I dig into the salmon strips at first, loving them at first sight, while noticing Alder slowly chew on a lamb chop.

“So,” Blaine asks between the biting of a chunk of fetta, “Trinity--”

“Please, call me Trin,” I say. It’s the first words I think I’ve said in awhile and my voice comes out rather husky. Well, huskier than usual.

“Well, Trin, I was going to ask, how old are you?”

“Fifteen,” I reply, when in fact I’ll be fifteen in a few hours but if she discovers that I was in the wrong line in the Square I might get in trouble.

“Fifteen?” Blaine says, as if tremendously interested. “And what do you usually do in your daily life back at home?”

What do I do? What the hell does that mean? I skip my gaze between Blaine and Mr. Dustan’s eyes. He’s that is flat and criticizing. I’ve never been given such a look before.

He is my mentor, she’s trying to get us to give him information so he knows how to teach us, I compute.

“I herd bullock.” It wasn’t a lie.

“Herd bullock? Gosh, that seems folly for such a young girl,” Blaine tweets. I perk an eyebrow. “And what else?”

Tapping my fingers together, I say, “I’m a shepherd.”

“It seems you like animals, is that true?”

That's just a stereotypical vision of us actually, Miss. “They’re relaxing.”

“Would you describe yourself as relaxed?”

Of course, I’m just about to frolic around killing people in front of the whole country. “If I am by myself …” That wasn’t a lie either. One of my favourite hobbies is daydreaming.

Blaine luckily then turns to Alder who is still delicately eating his lamb chop. I learn a handful of murmured things from him. He’s not seventeen, he’s sixteen. For a living, he told Blaine that he sells various things to people, but didn’t go into any further detail. And apparently he thinks of himself as tired. Why didn’t I say that?

All through this session I’ve gotten into a lamb chop and part of the cool bomb-alaska. I’ve divided my attention between the food and the gaze of Mr. Dustan, that doesn’t seem to affect Alder as much as it did to me.

After perchance, an hour, Mr. Dustan carefully wipes his mouth and bids us a goodnight while Blaine follows in that direction, telling us to sleep for tomorrow will be full-on. I’m left in the same carriage as Alder with all being silent except for the hiss of wind outside the windows.

I mouth his name several times while walking behind him, for our chambers are down further along the train, before daring to ask, “You sell drugs for a living, don’t you?”

Alder stops before me. I watch him peer over his shoulder with those shadowed eyes before asked in a throaty voice, “How’d you know?”

“I thought I’d heard your name somewhere,” I admit, shrugging my shoulders and sucking in my lips.

He watches me for a moment. “It’s a good living,” he states.

“Do you mean the money or the drugs?” I inquire, furrowing my eyebrows.

“The money,” Alder replies. “I don’t do the drugs anymore.”

His overall impression states otherwise, but I have a strong hunch that he’s telling me the truth. We both go to our chambers; I dress into a nightgown and climb into bed. I watch the black shapes through the window, cast in the sheen by the crescent moon as I try to sleep, but I can’t. The digits on the clock switch many times until it reads “12:00” and I wish myself happy birthday.

Pretty good.
I don't think District 11 had animals like bison, but since you haven't read CF I can't really criticize you for it :3

p.s I already think Alder is cooler then Peeta

Thank you very much I'm glad you like it. Lol, I wanted to take advantage of the first person tense.

LOL just send it to her for nothing.

This chapters kinda boring again. Well, compared to what I have planned. I wrote it ages ago. Here'ya.


Chapter Three

I can practically feel it. The roar of the crowd, the clicks of the lights, the pounds of the speakers, the tramping of feet. It’s began. The Districts competitors are waiting through the introductions before being ushered into their chariots. I’m sitting in a small room with Alder. My prep team had caused havoc on me earlier, I had seen my reflection. My ebony hair in it’s usual thick, straight, layered mass just past my shoulders. Other hair has been stripped from all over my body, so now my legs feel silky smooth and my eyebrows are sharp and angular. They dyed my eyelashes much darker and even added this permanent black eyeliner as well. All this they’d done while I was knocked out, so without my consent they distinguished an old “beauty spot” above my lip I thought had disappeared when I was seven.

That’s not the most bewildering though. Every district has themes that they specialise in. Everyone knows District 11 is of agriculture. In the past, usually tributes dressed as boring farmers with straw hats, sometimes the clichéd cowboy look . This year they’ve went as something very weird, giving both Alder and me an extremely cheerless look.

“Scythes,” the haughty designer had stated, peering down along his pointed, violet goatee. “You farmers use scythes to cut crops, yes? Well, what else are scythes used other than to collect grain? Reaping of course!” The next moment found use both holding massive, nasty-looking and very real scythes with rusted, jagged blades as long as my arm and doused in red. We also wore all black clothing; Alder in a crumpled jacket and skinny jeans with knee-high boots and gloves while I wore a dress. I actually liked it, the slanted cut of the hem, the one sleeveless side, the cropped parts here and there. Both of us wore two huge, traditional hoods though, to shout-out the fact that we were farmers ready for reaping.

I wasn’t sure I liked the whole impression. What would people expect? Obviously that we were a threat. Maybe the other tributes would buy us as savage farmers not to be crossed because we were just too insane. Alder could probably play the part, I’m not sure if I could. Do I have that side on me? My life depends on it. Recently I’ve just been trying not to think about my situation at all because I don’t want to risk choking up. But I think it’s gone now. Drained of me from last night when I was hiccoughing in my tears, worried because I was going to die. Anxious that I wasn’t going to live a life without being influenced by the Capitol. Ashamed that by death would be only entertainment to them all. For some reason, I’ve always imagined how my life would end. It’s part of the reason I know that I’m unstable. But I imagined myself taking a walk in the forest, being free. Going somewhere high, an untouched valley. And then laying in grass bathed in amber twilight, watching the sun sink and knowing I would be free.

I furrow my brow and rub my temple. The urge to cry had departed, I’m now just weighed by a dull ache against the odds. I turn to Alder and inspect him through a slitted gaze, feeling negative because he didn’t seem to have a reaction. He just sat there, staring ahead as if pondering, those many burnishing auburn points framing his face better than his hood ever could. He didn’t care?

“Are you worried?” I ask in my awfully charming monotonous voice. I know he’s my opponent here, but if talking can help me read him better … even if he lies. I like to be able to translate people.

Without moving his head, his black eyes skipped to mine. “No,” he replies simply.

“How can you not be?” I say, confusion overwhelming because if he’s lying he’s doing a damn good job at it.

There’s a long hesitation. “Because … there’s no use worrying about what I can’t change.” His voice is so slight and husky. But not feeble.

I think for several moments before I ask, “Where do you-- … Where did you live?”

“Out in the shacks, near the working railway.” Ah, that’s where I’ve never been. Our houses are near the rivers for the bullock and bison. In fact, I mention some of this without realising.

Alder smiles slightly, a twitch at the lip. Nevertheless, it’s the first smile I’ve ever seen from him. “And you herd bullock, yes?”

“Yes,” I reply.

“Why don’t you do something easier?”

The question catches me off guard for a moment. “Because,” I murmur, “I like to shepherd things …”

Alder lifts his chin a little, a gesture I’m not entirely sure of. “But I bet you don’t like to mother things,” he states.

I blink, pursing my lips. “Not really,” I admit. I wonder how he wormed something like that out of me. Do I look like someone who would be unfit to have kids or something? He’s probably right anyway … but the question still lingers in the air as odd for me.

“Do you have a family?” If he wants to get into me, I’ll get into him.
Alder shut his eyes and shrugged a little in his jacket. “I never knew my mother, she became an Avox,” he explains casually, “and my father passed away from disease when I was about five. I’ve been living with some of his old friends, men who drink to themselves at home all day. Me and my brother have found our way around.”

I don’t know what an Avox is, but I decide not to ask. I’m still puzzled as to why he actually did answer so thoroughly. “You’re being rather open to me … when you could’ve just said ‘yes’.”

Alder smiled again. “There’s no fun in that,” he said through an small amused sound. “Besides”--he shrunk in his chair--“it’s good manners.”

The horn blows and the crowd roars. I toddle to the window, curious to know why and I see them. The first chariot prancing gradually around the oval. Two elegant horses with the District 1 tributes glimmering like jewels. I recall District 1 mining for things like that, so the crowd is worshipping them. Roses are flung in their direction, hundreds of hands reaching into the oval in the mindless effort to touch them, even though they never do.
Our designer waddles in on his high heels. “This way,” he instructs. I dawdle out of the room while Alder yawns and rubs his eyes.

We climb into a grey chariot. No other Districts I remember have ever had grey chariots. Nor grey horses with black, straw-like hair and unkempt fur. And clear white contacts. We are arranged in the seats, Alder to the right of me. Both of us have to steady the scythes with strong grips in order to balance the blades.

“Remember to act frightening,” says our designer. I catch sight of his badge with the name Rochelle printed neatly across. “I’m going to add your effects, because you’re reapers. Blood will drip down behind your chariot, so don’t freak and fiddle around if you catch sight of it. All movements will also be affected by dark purple mist to set your stage.”

“This is an odd theme,” I dare to mention to Rochelle. “Don’t you think you’re tagging us pretty early?”

Rochelle chortled. “Why, it’s a perfect theme. And it’s the most effective way to tag you as frightening.”

Three, two, one.

The doors open and we are face to face with the crowd. The silent crowd.

[i'm not a writer]
Minor Criticism- The internet slang such as epic, the headshot comment, and equalling win statement don't seem to fit the atmosphere.

Procedurally or anything, I'm lost. I'll sleep on it.

[Personal Opinion]
I like the way you write, even with consideration of your comments at the beginning. Word choice is pleasingly riche.

It wasn't, I was just picking out examples of what I meant. And it's not story-shattering or anything.

so am I. =]

Probably a stupid question, but...
why did you choose to mimic her writing style?
Just curious.

Well I didn't even notice, so.... xD

Yesh

Alright, that makes sense now. Although... why wouldn't your style work?

I don't understand. The wording of your story?

I like being explained to n.n / exclaiming my high level of brain rot. <_<